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THE TRIFLERS 


BY 

FREDERICK ORIN BARTLETT 

V\ 

AUTHOR OF 

THE WALL STREET GIRL, Etc. 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY 

GEORGE ELLLIS WOLFE 



GROSSET & DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 




COPYRIGHT, 1916 , BY EVERY WEEK CORPORATION 
COPYRIGHT, 1917 , BY FREDERICK ORIN BARTLETT 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 


Published March iqtj 



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CONTENTS 


I. The Trouble with Monte i 

II. The Trouble with Marjory lo 

III. A Summons 23 

IV. A Proposal 35 

V. Pistols 41 

VI. Gendarmes and Ether 54 

VII. The Advantages of being shot .... 63 

VIII. Drawbacks of Recovery 75 

IX. Blue and Gold 92 

X. The Affair at Maxim’s 103 

XI. A Canceled Reservation 117 

XII. A Wedding Journey 126 

XIII. A Wedding Journey { continued ) . • ' . . 138 

XIV. The Bride runs away 148 

XV. In the Dark ......... 158 

XVI. A Walk on the Quay 167 

XVII. Just Monte 174 

XVIII. Peter . . 182 

XIX. An Explanation 189 

XX. Paying like a Man ....... 200 

XXI. Back to Schedule . . . ' ’ . . . . 215 


Vlll 


CONTENTS 


XXII. A Confession 227 

XXIII. Letters 235 

XXIV. The Blind see 247 

XXV. So Long . . • 265 

XXVI. Freedom 273 

XXVII. War 289 

XXVIII. The Cornice Road 297 

XXIX. Beneath the Stars 307 


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THE TRIFLERS 


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THE TRIFLERS 


CHAPTER I 

THE TROUBLE WITH MONTE 

For a man to keep himself consistently amused 
for ten years after his graduation from college, 
even with an inheritance to furnish ample finan- 
cial assistance, suggests a certain quality of genius. 
This much Monte Covington had accomplished — 
accomplished, furthermore, without placing him- 
self under obligations of any sort to the opposite 
sex. He left no trail of broken hearts in his wake. 
If some of the younger sisters of the big sisters 
took the liberty of falling in love with him secretly 
and in the privacy of their chambers, that was no 
fault of his, and did neither them nor him the 
slightest harm. 

Such minor complications could not very well be 
avoided, because, discreet as Monte tried to be, it 
was not possible for him to deny certain patent 
facts, to wit : that he was a Covington of Philadel- 
phia; that he was six feet tall and light-haired; 
that he had wonderfully decent blue eyes ; that he 
had a straight nose; that he had the firm mouth 
and jaws of an Arctic explorer; that he had more 
money than he knew what to do with ; and that he 


2 


THE TRIFLERS 


was just old enough to be known as a bachelor 
without in the slightest looking like one. 

At the point where the older sisters gave him up 
as hopeless, he came as a sort of challenge to the 
younger. 

This might have proved dangerous for him had 
it not been for his schedule, which did not leave 
him very long in any one place and which kept 
him always pretty well occupied. By spending his 
winters at his New York club until after the holi- 
days; then journeying to Switzerland for the 
winter sports; then to Nice for tennis; then to 
Paris for a month of gay spring and the Grand 
Prix; and so over to England for a few days in 
London and a month of golf along the coast — he 
was able to come back refreshed to his camp in 
the Adirondacks, there to fish until it was time to 
return to Cambridge for the football season, where 
he found himself still useful as a coach in the art 
of drop-kicking. 

The fact that he could get into his old football 
togs without letting out any strings or pulling any 
in, and could even come through an occasional 
scrimmage without losing his breath, was proof 
that he kept himself in good condition. 

It was not until his eleventh trip that Monte 
became aware of certain symptoms which seemed 
to hint that even as pleasant a cycle as his could 
not be pursued indefinitely. At Davos he first 
noted a change. Though he took the curves in the 
long run with a daring that proved his eye to be as 


THE TROUBLE WITH MONTE 3 

quick and his nerves as steady as ever, he was 
restless. 

Later, when he came to Nice, it was with a list- 
lessness foreign to him. In the first place, he 
missed Edhart, the old maitre d’hotel who for a 
decade had catered to his primitive American 
tastes in the matter of foodstuffs with as much 
enthusiasm as if he had been a Parisian epicure. 

The passing of Edhart did more to call Monte’s 
attention to the fact that in his own life a decade 
had also passed than anything else could possibly 
have done. Between birthdays there is only the 
lapse each time of a year; but between the coming 
and going of the maitre d’hotel there was a period 
of ten years, which with his disappearance seemed 
to vanish. Monte was twenty-two when he first 
came to Nice, and now he was thirty-two. He be- 
came thirty-two the moment he was forced to 
point out to the new management his own par- 
ticular table in the corner, and to explain that, 
however barbarous the custom might appear, he 
always had for breakfast either a mutton chop or 
a beefsteak. Edhart had made him believe, even 
to last year, that in this matter and a hundred 
others he was merely expressing the light prefer- 
ences of a young man. Now, because he was 
obliged to emphasize his wishes by explicit orders, 
they became the definite likes and dislikes of a 
man of middle age. 

For relief Monte turned to the tennis courts, 
and played so much in the next week that he went 


THE TRIFLERS 


4 

stale and in the club tournament put up the worst 
game of his life. That evening, in disgust, he 
boarded the train for Monte Carlo, and before 
eleven o’clock had lost five thousand francs at 
roulette — which was more than even he could 
afford for an evening’s entertainment that did not 
entertain. Without waiting for the croupier to 
rake in his last note, Monte hurried out and, to 
clear his head, walked all the way back to Nice 
along the Cornice Road. Above him, the mourn 
tains; below, the blue Mediterranean; while the 
road hung suspended between them like a silver 
ribbon. Yet even here he did not find content. 

Monte visited the rooms every evening for the 
next three days; but, as he did not play again 
and found there nothing more interesting than the 
faces, or their counterparts, which he had seen foi* 
the past ten years, the programme grew stupid. 

So, really, he had no alternative but Paris, al- 
though it was several weeks ahead of his schedule. 
As a matter of fact, it was several weeks too early. 
The city was not quite ready for him. The trees in 
the Champs Elysees were in much the condition of 
a lady half an hour before an expected caller. The 
broad vista to the triumphal arches was merely 
the setting for a few nurses and their charges. The 
little iron tables were so deserted that they re- 
mained merely little iron tables. 

Of course the boulevards were as always; but 
after a night or two before the Cafe de la Paix he 
had enough. Even with fifty thousand people pass- 


THE TROUBLE WITH MONTE 5 

ing in review before him, he was not as amused as 
he should have been. He sipped his black coffee 
as drowsily as an old man. 

In an effort to rouse himself, he resolved to visit 
the cafes upon Montmartre, which he had out- 
grown many years ago. That night he climbed 
the narrow stairs to TAbbaye. It was exactly as it 
had been — a square room bounded by long seats 
before tables. Some two dozen young ladies of 
various nationalities wandered about the center of 
the room, trying their best, but with manifest 
effort, to keep pace to the frenzied music of an 
orchestra paid to keep frenzied. A half-dozen of 
the ladies pounced upon Monte as he sat alone, 
and he gladly turned over to them the wine he 
purchased as the price of admission. Yvonne, she 
with the languid Egyptian eyes, tried to rouse the 
big American. Was it that he was bored? Possibly 
it was that, Monte admitted. Then another bottle 
of wine was the proper thing. So he ordered an- 
other bottle, and to the toast Yvonne proposed, 
raised his glass. But the wine did him no good, 
and the music did him no good, and Yvonne did 
him no good. The place had gone flat. Whatever 
he needed, it was nothing 1 ’Abbaye had to offer. 

Covington went out into the night again, and, 
though the music from a dozen other cafes called 
him to come in and forget, he continued down the 
hill to the boulevard, deaf to the gay entreaties of 
the whole city. It was clear that he was out of 
tune with Paris. 


6 


THE TRIFLERS 


As he came into the Place de I’Opera he ran into 
the crowd pouring from the big gray opera house, 
an eager, voluble crowd that jostled him about as 
if he were an intruder. They had been warmed by 
fine music and stirred by the great passions of 
this mimic world, so that the women clung more 
tightly to the arms of their escorts. 

Covington, who had fallen back a little to watch 
them pass, felt strangely isolated. They hurried 
on without seeing him, as if he were merely some 
spectral bystander. Yet the significant fact was 
not that a thousand strangers should pass him 
without being aware of his presence, but that he 
himself should notice their indifference. It was 
not like him. 

Ordinarily it was exactly what he would desire. 
But to-night he was in an unusual mood — a mood 
that was the culmination of a restlessness covering 
an entire month. But what the deuce was the 
name and cause of it.^ He could no longer attrib- 
ute it to the fact that he had gone stale physically, 
because he had now had a rest of several weeks. It 
was not that he was bored; those who are bored 
never stop to ask themselves why they are bored 
or they would not be bored. It was not that he 
was homesick, because, strictly speaking, he had 
no home. A home seems to involve the female 
element and some degree of permanence. This un- 
rest was something new — something, apparently, 
that had to do vaguely with the fact that he was 
thirty-two. If Edhart — 


THE TROUBLE WITH MONTE 7 

Impatiently he started again for his hotel. This 
confoundedly good-natured, self-satisfied crowd 
moving in couples irritated him. At that moment 
a tall, slender girl turned, hesitated, then started 
toward him. He did not recognize her at first, 
but the mere fact that she came toward him — ■ 
that any one came toward him — • quickened his 
pulse. It brought him back instantly from the 
shadowy realm of specters to the good old solid 
earth. It was he, Covington, who was standing 
there. 

Then she raised her eyes — dark eyes deep as 
trout pools; steady, confident, but rather sad eyes. 
They appeared to be puzzled by the eagerness 
with which he stepped forward and grasped her 
hand. 

‘‘Marjory!’’ he exclaimed. “I did n’t know you 
were in Paris!” 

She smiled — a smile that extended no farther 
than the corners of her perfect mouth. 

“That’s to excuse yourself for not looking me 
up, Monte?” 

She had a full, clear voice. It was good to hear a 
voice that he could recognize. 

“No,” he answered frankly. “That’s honest. 
I thought you were somewhere in Brittany. But 
are you bound anywhere in particular?” 

“Only home.” 

“ Still living on the Boulevard Saint-Germain ? ” 

She nodded. 

“Number forty-three?” 


8 THE TRIFLERS 

He was glad he was able to remember that 
number. • 

‘‘Number sixty-four,” she corrected. 

They had been moving toward the Metro 
station, and here she paused. 

“There is no need for you to come with me,” 
she said. “But I’d like to have you drop in for 
tea some afternoon — if you have time.” 

The strangers were still hurrying past him — to 
the north, the south, the east, the west. Men and 
women were hurrying past, laughing, intent upon 
themselves, each with some definite objective in 
mind. He himself was able to smile with them 
now. Then she held out her gloved hand, and he 
felt alone again. 

“I may accompany you home, may I not.^” he 
asked eagerly. 

“If you wish.” 

Once again she raised her eyes with that expres- 
sion of puzzled interest. This was not like Monte. 
Of course he would accompany her home, but that 
he should seem really to take pleasure in the pros- 
pect — that was novel. 

“Let me call a taxi,” he said. “I’m never sure 
where these French undergrounds are going to 
land me.” 

“They are much quicker,” she suggested. 

“There is no hurry,” he answered. 

With twenty-four hours a day on his hands, he 
was never in a hurry. 

Instead of giving to the driver the number sixty- 


THE TROUBLE WITH MONTE 9 

four Boulevard Saint-Germain, he ordered him to 
forty-seven Rue Saint-Michel, which is the Cafe 
d’Harcourt. 

It had suddenly occurred to Monte what the 
trouble was with him. He was lonesome. 


CHAPTER II 

THE TROUBLE WITH MARJORY 

She was surprised when the car stopped before the 
cafe, and mildly interested. 

“Do you mind?” he asked. 

“No, Monte.” 

She followed him through the smoke and chatter 
to one of the little dining-rooms in the rear where 
the smoke and chatter were somewhat subdued. 
There Henri removed their wraps with a look of 
frank approval. It was rather an elaborate dinner 
that Monte ordered, because he remembered for 
the first time that he had not yet dined this eve- 
ning. It was also a dinner of which he felt Edhart 
would thoroughly approve, and that always was a 
satisfaction. 

“Now,” he said to the girl, as soon as Henri had 
left, “tell me about yourself.” 

“You knew about Aunt Kitty?” she asked. 

“No,” he replied hesitatingly, with an uneasy 
feeling that it was one of those things that he 
should know about. 

“She was taken ill here in Paris in February, 
and died shortly after we reached New York,” she 
explained. 

What Covington would have honestly liked to 
do was to congratulate her. Stripping the situation 


TROUBLE WITH MARJORY ii 


of all sentimentalism, the naked truth remained 
that she had for ten years given up her life utterly 
to her aunt — had almost sold herself into slavery. 
Ostensibly this Aunt Kitty had taken the girl to 
educate, although she had never forgiven her 
sister for having married Stockton; had never for- 
given her for having had this child, which had cost 
her life; had never forgiven Stockton for losing in 
business her sister’s share of the Dolliver fortune. 

Poor old Stockton — he had done his best, and 
the failure killed him. It was Chic Warren who 
had told Covington the pitiful little tale. Chic 
always spoke of the aunt as ‘‘the Vamp.,” the 
abbreviation, as he explained, being solely out of 
respect to her gray hairs. Marjory had received 
her education, to be sure; but she had paid for it 
in the only coin she had — the best of her young 
self from seventeen to twenty-seven. The only 
concession the aunt had ever made was to allow 
her niece to study art in Paris this last year. 

“I have n’t heard from Chic since Christmas,” 
he explained; “so I did n’t know. Then you are 
back here in Paris — alone?” 

Unconsciously he had emphasized that word 
“alone.” 

“Why not?” she asked directly. 

She held her head a bit high, as if in challenge. 

“Nothing; only — ” 

He did not finish. He could not very well tell 
her that she was too confoundedly good-looking 
to be alone in Paris. Yet that was what he 


12 


THE TRIFLERS 


thought, in spite of his belief that, of all the wom- 
en he had ever met, she was the best able to be 
alone anywhere. There were times when he had 
sat beside her, not feeling sure that he was in the 
same room with her : it was as if he were looking at 
her through plate-glass. To-night, however, it was 
not like that. She looked like a younger sister of 
herself. 

“Still painting?” he inquired. 

“As much as they will let me.” 

“They?” 

She leaned forward with a frown, folding her 
arms upon the table. 

“What is the matter with men ? ” she demanded. 
“Why won’t they believe a woman when she tells 
the truth?” 

He was somewhat startled by the question, and 
by her earnestness. 

“Just what do you mean?” 

“Why can’t they leave a woman alone?” 

It was clear that he was not expected to answer, 
and so, with her permission, he lighted a cigarette 
and waited with considerable interest for her to 
go on. 

For a moment she studied him, as if wondering 
if it were worth while to continue her confidence. 
Her acquaintance with Monte dated back ten 
years, when, as a girl of seventeen, she had met hirii 
on one of his rare week-end visits to the Warrens. 
She was then fresh from finishing school, and hp 
was one of the very few men she had been allowed 


TROUBLE WITH MARJORY 13 

to meet in any more intimate way than merely to 
shake hands with in passing. She had been tre- 
mendously impressed. She could smile at it now. 
But, really, she had been like one of the younger 
sisters, and for a year or so after that he had been 
to her a sort of vague knight errant. 

It was three years ago that her aunt had begun 
to travel with her, and after that she had seen 
Monte not oftener than once or twice a year, and 
then for scarcely more than a greeting and good- 
bye. On the other hand, Mrs. Warren had always 
talked and written to her a great deal about him. 
Chic and he had been roommates in college, and 
ever since had kept in close touch with each other 
by letter. The trivial gossip of Monte’s life had al- 
ways been passed on to Marjory, so that she had 
really for these last few years been following his 
movements and adventures month by month, 
until she felt in almost as intimate contact with 
him as with the Warrens. She had reason to think 
that, in turn, her movements were retailed to 
Monte. The design was obvious — and amusing. 

On the whole, Marjory concluded that it was 
not especially worth while to burden him with her 
troubles; and yet, it was just because of that she 
was inclined to continue — in, however, a less 
serious mood. Monte had so few burdens of his 
own. That odd little smile — scarcely more than 
the ghost of a smile — returned to the corners of 
her mouth. 

‘‘To-night,” she said, “I ran away from Teddy 


THE TRIFLERS 


H 

Hamilton, for all the world like a heroine of melo- 
drama. Do you know Teddy?” 

^‘Yes,” he answered slowly, “I do.” 

He refrained with difficulty from voicing his 
opinion of the man, which he could have put into 
three words — ‘‘the little beast.” But how did it 
happen that she, of all women, had been thrown 
into contact with this pale-faced Don Juan of the 
New York music-halls and Paris cafes? 

“ I lent Marie, my maid, one of my new hats and 
a heavy veil,” she went on. “She came out and 
stepped into a taxi, with instructions to keep 
driving in a circle of a mile. Teddy followed in 
another machine. And” — she paused to look 
up and smile — “ for all I know, he may still be 
following her round and round. I came on to the 
opera.” 

“Kind of tough on Marie,” he commented, with 
his blue eyes reflecting a hearty relish of the 
situation. 

“Marie will undoubtedly enjoy a nap,” she said. 
“As for Teddy — well, he is generally out of funds, 
so I hope he may get into difficulties with the 
driver.” 

“He won’t,” declared Monte. “He’ll probably 
end by borrowing a pour-boire of the driver.” 

She nodded. 

“That is possible. He is very clever.” 

“The fact that he is still out of jail — ” began 
Monte. 

Then he checked himself. He was not a man to 


TROUBLE WITH MARJORY 15 

talk about other men — even about one so little 
of a man as Teddy Hamilton. 

‘‘Tell me what you know of him/’ she requested. 

“I’d rather not,” he answered. 

“Is he as bad as that?” she queried thought- 
fully. “But what I don’t understand is why — ■ 
why, then, he can sing like a white-robed choir- 
boy.” 

Monte looked serious. 

“I’ve heard him,” he admitted. “But it was 
generally after he had been sipping absinthe 
rather heavily. His specialty is ‘The Rosary.’” 

“And the barcarole from the ‘Contes d’Hoff- 
mann.’” 

“And little Spanish serenades,” he added. 

“But if he’s all bad inside?” 

She raised those deep, dark eyes as a child might. 
She had been for ten years like one in a convent. 

Covington shook his head. 

“I can’t explain it,” he said. “Perhaps, in a 
way, it’s because of that — because of the con- 
trast. But I ’ve heard him do It. I ’ve heard him 
make a room full of those girls on Montmartre 
stop their dancing and gulp hard. But where — ” 

“Did I meet him?” she finished. “It was on 
the boat coming over this last time. You see — 
I’m talking a great deal about myself.” 

“Please go on.” 

He had forgotten that her face was so young. 
The true lines of her features were scarcely more 


i6 


THE TRIFLERS 


than sketched in, though that much had been 
done with a sure hand. Whatever was to come, he 
thought, must be added. There would be need of 
few erasures. Up to a certain point it was the face 
of any of those young women of gentle breeding 
that he met when at home — the inheritance of 
the best of many generations. 

As she was sitting now, her head slightly turned, 
the arch of one brow blended in a perfect curve 
into her straight, thin nose. But the mouth and 
chin — they were firmer than one might have ex- 
pected. If, not knowing her, he had seen her 
driving in the Bois or upon Rotten Row, he would 
have been curious about her title. It had always 
seemed to him that she should by rights have been 
Her Royal Highness Something or Other. 

This was due partly to a certain air of serene 
security and a certain aloofness that characterized 
her. He felt it to a lesser degree to-night than ever 
before, but he made no mistake. He might be per- 
mitted to admire those features as one admires a 
beautiful portrait, but somewhere a barrier ex- 
isted. There are faces that reflect the soul; there 
are faces that hide the soul. 

“Please go on,’^ he repeated, as she still 
hesitated. 

She was trying to explain why it was that she 
was tempted at all to talk about herself to-night. 
Perhaps it was because she had been so long silent 
— for many years silent. Perhaps it was because 
Monte was so very impersonal that it was a good 


TROUBLE WITH MARJORY 17 

deal like talking out loud to herself, with the ad- 
vantage of being able to do this without wonder- 
ing if she were losing her wits. Then, too, after 
Teddy, Monte’s straight-seeing blue eyes fresh- 
ened her thoughts like a clean north wind. She 
always spoke of Monte as the most American man 
she knew; and by that she meant something 
direct and honest — something four-square. 

‘‘I met Teddy on the boat,” she resumed. “I 
was traveling alone because — well, just because I 
wanted to be alone. You know. Aunt Kitty was 
very good to me, but I’d been with her every 
minute for more than ten years, and so I wanted 
to be by myself a little while. Right after she 
died, I went down to the farm — her farm in 
Connecticut — and thought I could be alone there. 
But — she left me a great deal of money, Monte.” 

Somehow, she could speak of such a thing to 
him. She was quite matter-of-fact about it. 

‘‘ It was a great deal too much,” she went on. 
‘‘I didn’t mind myself, because I could forget 
about it; but other people — they made me feel 
like a rabbit running before the hounds. Some 
one put the will in the papers, and people I’d 
never heard of began to write to me — dozens of 
them. Then men with all sorts of schemes — 
charities and gold mines and copper mines and oil 
wells and I don’t know what all, came down there 
to see me : down there to the little farm, where I 
wanted to be alone. Of course, I could be out to 
them; but even then I was conscious that they 


i8 


THE TRIFLERS 


were around. Some of them even waited until I 
ventured from the house, and waylaid me on the 
road. 

“Then there were others — people I knew and 
could n’t refuse to see without being rude. I felt,” 
she said, looking up at Monte, “as if the world of 
people had suddenly all turned into men, and that 
they were hunting me. I could n’t get away from 
them without locking myself up, and that was just 
the thing I did n’t want to do. In a way, I ’d been 
locked up all my life. So I just packed my things 
and took the steamer without telling any one but 
my lawyer where I was going.” 

“It’s too bad they wouldn’t let you alone,” 
said Monte. 

“ It was like an evil dream,” she said. “ I did n’t 
know men were like that.” 

Monte frowned. 

Of course, that is just what would happen to a 
young woman as good-looking as she, suddenly 
left alone with a fortune. Her name, without a 
doubt, was on the mailing list of every promoter 
from New York to San Francisco. It was also un- 
doubtedly upon the list of every man and woman 
who could presume an acquaintance with her. 
She had become fair game. 

“Then on the boat I met Teddy,” she went on. 
“It was difficult not to meet him.” 

He nodded. 

“I did n’t mind so much at first; he was inter- 
esting.” 


TROUBLE WITH MARJORY 19 

“Yes, he’s that,” admitted Monte. 

“And he was very pleasant until — he began to 
make love to me.” 

If Monte knew Teddy Hamilton, this happened 
about the third day. 

“That was very annoying,” she said reminis- 
cently. “It was annoying, not only because of 
Teddy, but in itself. In some ways he did it very 
nicely — especially when he sang in the moon- 
light. I suppose it was my fault that I gave him 
the opportunity. I could have kept myself in my 
stateroom, or I could have played bridge with the 
elderly ladies in the cabin. But, you see, that’s 
what Aunty always made me do, and I did want 
to get out. I did enjoy Teddy up to that point. 
But I did not want to fall in love with him, or with 
any one else. I suppose I ’m too selfish — too 
utterly and completely selfish.” 

“To — er — to fall in love?” he questioned. 

“Yes. Oh, as long as I’m making you my 
father confessor, I may as well be thorough.” She 
smiled. 

Monte leaned forward with sudden interest. 
Here was a question that at odd moments had 
disturbed his own peace of mind. It was Chic 
Warren who had first told him that in remaining 
a bachelor he was leading an utterly selfish life. 

“Does a distaste for falling in love necessarily 
go back to selfishness ? ” he asked. “ Is n’t it some- 
times merely a matter of temperament?” 

“And temperament,” she asked, “is what?” 


20 


THE TRIFLERS 


That was altogether too abstract a problem for 
Monte to discuss. Yet he had his own ideas. 

‘‘It’s the way you’re made,” he suggested. 

“I doubt it, Monte,” she answered. “I think 
it’s rather the way you make yourself; because I 
imagine that, to start with, we are all made a good 
deal alike. It’s just what you’d rather do.” 

“And you’d rather paint?” 

She considered a moment. It was as if she were 
trying at this time to be very honest with herself. 

“I’d rather be free to paint or not,” she de- 
clared. “While Aunty was alive, to paint seemed 
to be the only way to be free. It gave me the 
excuse for coming here, for getting away a few 
hours a day. Now — well, just to be free seems 
enough. I don’t suppose a man knows how a 
woman hungers for that — for just sheer, ele- 
mental freedom.” 

He did not. He supposed that freedom was 
what women enjoyed from birth — like queens. 
He supposed they even had especial opportunities 
in that direction, and that most men were in the 
nature of being their humble servitors. 

“It is n’t that I want to do anything especially 
proper or improper,” she hastened to assure him. 
“I have n’t either the cravings or the ambitions of 
the new woman. That, again, is where I ’m selfish. 
I’d like to be” — she spoke hesitatingly — “I’d 
like to be just like you, Monte.” 

“Like me?” he exclaimed in surprise. 

“Free to do just what I want to do — nothing 


TROUBLE WITH MARJORY 21 


particularly good, nothing particularly bad; free 
to go here or go there ; free to live my own life ; free 
to be free.” 

‘‘Well,” he asked, “what’s to prevent.^” 

“Teddy Hamilton — and the others,” she an- 
swered. “In a way, they take the place of Aunty. 
They won’t let me alone. They won’t believe me 
when I tell them I don’t want them around. They 
seem to assume that, just because I’m not mar- 
ried — Oh, they are stupid, Monte!” 

Henri, who had been stealing in with course 
after course, refilled the glasses. He smiled dis- 
creetly as he saw her earnest face. 

“What you need,” suggested Monte, “is a sort 
of chaperon or secretary.” 

She shook her head. 

“Would you like one yourself?” she demanded. 

“It would be a good deal of a nuisance,” he ad- 
mitted; “but, after all — ” 

“I won’t have it!” she burst out. “It would 
spoil everything. It would be like building one’s 
own jail and employing one’s own jailer. I 
could n’t stand that. I ’d rather be annoyed as I 
am than be annoyed by a chaperon.” 

She was silent a moment, and then she ex- 
claimed : 

“Why, I ’d almost rather marry Teddy! I ’d feel 
freer — honestly, I think I’d feel freer with a 
husband than a chaperon.” 

“Oh, see here!” protested Monte. “You must 
n’t do that.” 


22 


THE TRIFLERS 


“I don’t propose to,” she answered quietly. 

‘‘Then,” he said, “the only thing left is to go 
away where Teddy and the others can’t find you.” 

“Where?” she asked with interest. 

“There are lots of little villages in Switzer- 
land.” 

She shook her head. 

“And along the Riviera.” 

“I love the little villages,” she replied. “I love 
them here and at home. But it’s no use.” 

She smiled. There was something pathetic 
about that smile — something that made Coving- 
ton’s arm muscles twitch. 

“I shouldn’t even have the aid of the taxis in 
the little villages,” she said. 

Monte leaned back. 

“If they only had Here in Paris a force of good, 
honest Irish cops instead of these confounded 
gendarmes,” he mused. 

She looked her astonishment at the irrelevant 
observation. 

“You see,” he explained, “it might be possible 
then to lay for Teddy H. some evening and — 
argue with him.” 

“It’s nice of you, Monte, to think of that,” she 
murmured. 

Monte was nice in a good many ways. 

“The trouble is, they lack sentiment, these 
gendarmes,” he concluded. “They are altogether 
too law-abiding.” 


CHAPTER III 


A SUMMONS 

Monte himself had sometimes been accused of 
lacking sentiment; and yet, the very first thing he 
did when starting for his walk the next morning 
was to order a large bunch of violets to be sent 
to number sixty-four Boulevard Saint-Germain. 
Then, at a somewhat faster pace than usual, he 
followed the river to the Jardin des Tuileries, and 
crossed there to the Avenue des Champs Elysees 
into the Bois. 

He walked as confidently as if overnight his 
schedule had again been put in good running 
order; for, overnight, spring had come, and that 
was what his schedule called for in Paris. The 
buds, which until now had hesitated to unfold, 
trembled forth almost before his eyes under the 
influence of a sun that this morning blazed in a 
turquoise sky. Perhaps they had hurried a trifle to 
overtake Monte. 

With his shoulders well back, filling his lungs 
deep with the perfumed morning air, he swung 
along with a hearty, self-confident stride that 
caused many a little nursemaid to turn and look 
at him again. 

He had sent her violets; and yet, except for the 
fact that he had never before sent her flowers, he 


THE TRIFLERS 


24 

could not rightly be accused of sentimentalism. 
He had acted on the spur of the moment, remem- 
bering only the sad, wistful smile with which she 
had bade him good-night when she stood at the 
door of the pension. Or perhaps he had been 
prompted by the fact that she was in Paris 
alone. 

Until now it had never been possible to disso- 
ciate her completely from Aunt Kitty. Marjory 
had never had a separate existence of her own. To 
a great many people she had never been known 
except as Miss Dolliver’s charming niece, although 
to Monte she had been known more particularly 
as a young friend of the Warrens. But, even in 
this more intimate capacity, he had always been 
relieved of any sense of responsibility because of 
this aunt. Wherever he met her, there was never 
any occasion for him to put himself out to be nice 
to her, because it was always understood that she 
could never leave Aunt Kitty even for an evening. 
This gave him a certain sense of security. With 
her he never was forced to consider either the 
present or the future. 

Last night it had been almost like meeting her 
for the first time alone. It was as if in all these 
years he had known her only through her photo- 
graph, as one knows friends of one’s friends about 
whom one has for long heard a great deal, without 
ever meeting them face to face. F rom the moment 
he first saw her in the Place de I’Opera she had 
made him conscious of her as, in another way, he 


A SUMMONS 


25 

had always been conscious of Edhart. The latter, 
until his death, had always remained in Monte’s 
outer consciousness like a fixed point. Because he 
was so permanent, so unchanging, he dominated 
the rest of Monte’s schedule as the north star does 
the mariner’s course. 

Each year began when Edhart bade him a 
smiling au revoir at the door of the Hotel des 
Roses; and that same year did not end, but be- 
gan again, when the matter of ten or eleven 
months later Monte found Edhart still at the 
door to greet him. So it was always possible, the 
year round, to think of Edhart as ever standing 
by the door smilingly awaiting him. This was 
very pleasant, and prevented Monte from getting 
really lonesome, and consequently from getting 
old. It was only in the last few weeks that he 
fully realized all that Edhart had done for him. 

It was, in some ways, as if Edhart had come 
back to life again in Marjory. He had felt it the 
moment she had smilingly confided in him; he 
felt it still more when, after she bade him good- 
night, he had turned back into the city, not feeling 
alone any more. Now it was as if he were in- 
debted to her for this morning walk, and for 
restoring to him his springtime Paris. It was for 
these things that he had sent her violets — be- 
cause she had made him comfortable again. So, 
after all, his act had been one, not of sentimental- 
ism, but of just plain gratitude. 

Monte’s objection to sentiment was not based 


26 


THE TRIFLERS 


upon any of the modern schools of philosophy, 
which deplore it as a weakness. He took his 
stand upon much simpler grounds: that, as far 
as he had been able to observe, it did not make 
for content. It had been his fate to be thrown in 
contact with a good deal of it in its most acute 
stages, because the route he followed was un- 
happily the route also followed by those upon 
their honeymoon. If what he observed was senti- 
ment at its zenith, then he did not care for it. 
Bridegrooms made the poorest sort of traveling 
companions; and that, after all, was the supreme 
test of men. They appeared restless, dazed, and 
^ were continually looking at their watches. Few 
of them were able to talk intelligently or to play 
a decent game of bridge. 

Perhaps, too, he had been unfortunate in the 
result of his observations of the same passion in 
its later stages; but it is certain that those were 
not inspiring, either. Chic Warren was an excep- 
tion. He seemed fairly happy and normal, but 
Covington would never forget the night he spent 
there when Chic, Junior had the whooping-cough. 
He walked by Chic’s side up and down the hall, up 
and down the hall, up and down the hall, with 
Chic a ghastly white and the sweat standing in 
beads upon his forehead. His own throat had 
tightened and he grew weak in the knees every 
time the rubber-soled nurse stole into sight. Every 
now and then he heard that gasping cough, and 
felt the spasmodic grip of Chic’s fingers upon his 


A SUMMONS 


27 

arm. It was terrible; for weeks afterward Coving- 
ton heard that cough. 

At the end of an hour Covington turned back, 
wheeling like a soldier on parade. There had never 
seemed to him any reason why, when a man was 
entirely comfortable, as he was, he should take 
the risk of a change. He had told Chic as much 
when sometimes the latter, over a pipe, had intro- 
duced the subject. The last time. Chic had gone 
a little farther than usual. 

‘‘But, man alive!” Chic had exclaimed. “A 
day will come when you’ll be sorry.” 

“I don’t believe it,” Monte answered. 

Yet it was only yesterday that he had wandered 
over half Paris in search of something to bring his 
schedule back to normal. And he had found it — 
in front of the Opera House at eleven o’clock at 
night. 

Monte strode into his hotel with a snap that 
made the little clerk glance up in surprise. 

“Any mail for me?” he inquired. 

“A telephone message, monsieur.” 

He handed Monte an envelope. It was not often 
that he received telephone messages. It read as 
follows : — 

Can’t you come over? Teddy was very angry 
about the taxi, and I think I shall leave Paris to- 
night. The flowers were beautiful. 

Monte felt his breath coming fast. 


28 


THE TRIFLERS 


‘‘How long has this been waiting for me?” he 
demanded. 

“A half-hour, monsieur.” 

He hurried out the door and into a taxi. 

“ Sixty-four Boulevard Saint-Germain — and 
hurry.” 

Leaving Paris? She had no right to do that. 
Edhart never left. That was the beauty of Edhar t 
— that he remained stationary, so that he could 
always be found. He was quite sure that Edhart 
was too considerate even to die, could he have 
avoided it. Now Marjory was proposing to go and 
leave him here alone. He could not allow that. 
It was too early to quit Paris, anyway. It was 
only the first day of spring! 

She came down into the gloomy pension recep- 
tion-room looking as if she had already begun to 
assist Marie with the packing. Her hair had be- 
come loosened, and escaped in several places in 
black curls that gave her a distinctly girlish ap- 
pearance. There was more color, too, in her 
cheeks ; but it was the flush of excitement rather 
than the honest red that colored his own cheeks. 
She looked tired and discouraged. She sank into 
a chair. 

“It was good of you to come, Monte,” she said. 
“But I don’t know why I should bother you with 
my affairs. Only — he was so disagreeable. He 
frightened me, for a moment.” 

“What did he do?” demanded Monte. 

“He came here early, and when Marie told him 


A SUMMONS 


29 

I was out he said he would wait until I came back. 
So he sat down — right here. Then, every five 
minutes, he called Madame Courcy and sent her 
up with a note. I was afraid of a scene, because 
madame spoke of sending for the gendarmes.” 

‘‘Why did n’t you let her.^” 

“That would have made still more of a scene.” 

She was speaking in a weary, emotionless voice, 
like one who is very tired. 

“So I came down and saw him,” she said. “He 
was very melodramatic.” 

It seemed difficult for her to go on. 

“Absinthe.^” he questioned. 

“ I don^t know. He wanted me to marry him at 
once. He drew a revolver and threatened to shoot 
himself — threatened to shoot me.” 

Monte clenched his fists. 

“Good Lord!” he said softly. “That is going a 
bit far.” 

“Is it so men act — when they are in love?” she 
asked. 

Monte started. 

“I don’t know. If it is, then they ought to be 
put in jail.” 

“If it is, it is most unpleasant,” she said; “and 
I can’t stand it, Monte. There is no reason why 
I should, is there?” 

“No: if you can avoid it.” 

“That’s the trouble,” she frowned. “I’ve been 
quite frank with him. I told him that I did not 
want to marry him. I’ve told him that I could 


THE TRIFLERS 


30 

not conceive of any possible circumstances under 
which I would marry him. I Ve told him that in 
French and I Ve told him that in English, and he 
won’t believe me.” 

“The cad!” exclaimed Monte. 

“It does n’t seem fair,” she mused. “The only 
thing I ask for is to be allowed to lead my life un- 
disturbed, and he won’t let me. There are others, 
too. I had five letters this morning. So all I can 
do is to run away again.” 

“To where?” asked Monte. 

“You spoke of the little villages along the 
Riviera.” 

“Yes,” he nodded. “There is the village of 
Etois — back in the mountains.” 

“Then I might go there. Cest tout egal^ 

She shrugged her shoulders. (She had beautiful 
shoulders.) 

“But look here. Supposing the — this Hamil- 
ton should follow you there?” 

“Then I must move again.” 

Monte paced the room. Obviously this was not 
right. There was no reason why she should be con- 
tinually hounded. Yet there seemed to be no way 
to prevent it. 

He stopped in front of her. She glanced up — 
her eyes, even now, calm and deep as trout pools. 

“I’ll get hold of the beggar to-day,” he said 
grimly. 

She shook her head. 

“Please not.” 


A SUMMONS 


31 

But he ’s the one who must go away. If I could 
have a few minutes with him alone, I think per- 
haps I could make him see that.” 

‘‘Please not,” she repeated. 

“What’s the harm?” 

“I don’t think it would be safe — for either of 
you.” 

She raised her eyes as she said that, and for 
a moment Monte was held by them. Then she 
rose. 

“After all, it ’s too bad for me to inflict my 
troubles on you,” she said. 

“ I don’t mind,” he answered quickly. “Only — 
hang it all, there does n’t seem to be anything I 
can do!” 

“I guess there is n’t anything any one can do,” 
she replied helplessly. 

“So you’re going away?” 

“To-night,” she nodded. 

“ToEtois?” 

“Perhaps. Perhaps to India. Perhaps to Japan.” 

It was the indefiniteness that Monte did not 
relish. Even as she spoke, it was as if she began to 
disappear; and for a second he felt again the full 
weight of his thirty-two years. He was perfectly 
certain that the moment she went he was going to 
feel alone — more alone than he had ever felt in 
his life. 

It was in the nature of a hunch. Within twenty- 
four hours he would be wandering over Paris as he 
had wandered yesterday. That would not do at 


THE TRIFLERS 


32 

all. Of course, he could pack up and go on to 
England, but at the moment he felt that it would 
be even worse there, where all the world spoke 
English. 

‘‘Suppose I order young Hamilton to leave 
Paris?” he asked. 

“But what right have you to order him to leave 
Paris?” 

“Well, I can tell him he is annoying you and 
that I won’t stand for it,” he declared. 

For a second her eyes grew mellow; for a second 
a more natural red flushed her cheeks. 

“If you were only my big brother, now,” she 
breathed. 

Monte saw the point. His own cheeks turned a 
red to match hers. 

“You mean he’ll ask — what business you are 
of mine?” 

“Yes.” 

And Monte would have no answer. He realized 
that. As a friend he had, of course, certain rights ; 
but they were distinctly limited. It was, for in- 
stance, no business of his whether she went to 
Etois or Japan or India. By no stretch of the im- 
agination could he make it his business — though 
it affected his whole schedule, though it affected 
her whole life. As a friend he would be justified, 
perhaps, in throwing young Hamilton out of the 
door if he happened to be around when the man 
was actually annoying her; but there was no way 
in which he could guard her against such annoy- 


A SUMMONS 


33 

ances in the future. He had no authority that ex- 
tended beyond' the moment; nor was it possible 
for Marjory herself to give him that authority. 
Young Hamilton, if he chose, could harry her 
around the world, and it would be none of Monte’s 
business. 

There was something wrong with a situation of 
that sort. If he had only been born her brother 
or father, or even a first cousin, then it might be 
possible to do something, because, if necessary, he 
could remain always at hand. He wondered 
vaguely if there were not some law that would 
make him a first cousin. He was on the point of 
suggesting it when a bell jangled solemnly in the 
hall. 

The girl clutched his arm. 

“Pm afraid he’s come again,” she gasped. 

Monte threw back his shoulders. 

“Fine,” he smiled. “It could n’t be better.” 

' “But I don’t want to see him! I won’t see 
him!” 

“There is n’t the slightest need in the world of 
it,” he nodded. “You go upstairs, and I’ll see 
him.” 

But, clinging to his arm, she drew him into the 
hall and toward the stairs. The bell rang again — 
impatiently. 

“Come,” she insisted. 

He tried to calm her. 

“Steady! Steady! I promise you I won’t make 
a scene.” 


THE TRIFLERS 


34 

‘^Buthewill. Oh, you don’t know him. I won’t 
have it. Do you hear.? I won’t have it.” 

To Madame Courcy, who appeared, she whis- 
pered : — 

“Tell him I refuse to see him again. Tell him 
you will call the gendarmes.” 

“It seems so foolish to call in those fellows 
when the whole thing might be settled quietly 
right now,” pleaded Monte. 

He turned eagerly toward the door. 

“If you don’t come away, Monte,” she said 
quietly, “I won’t ever send for you again.” 

Reluctantly he followed her up the stairs as the 
bell jangled harshly, wildly. 


CHAPTER IV 


A PROPOSAL 

Dejectedly, Monte seated himself upon a trunk 
in the midst of a scene of fluffy chaos. Marie had 
swooped in from the next room, seized one armful, 
and returned in consternation as her mistress 
stood poised at the threshold. Then, with her face 
white, Marjory closed the door and locked it. 

‘‘He’s down there,” she informed Monte. 

Monte glanced at his watch. 

“It’s quarter of twelve,” he announced. “I’ll 
give him until twelve to leave.” 

Marjory crossed to the window and stared out 
at the sun-lighted street. It was very beautiful 
out there — very warm and gentle and peaceful. 
And at her back all this turmoil. Once again the 
unspoken cry that sprang to her lips was just 
this : — 

“ It is n’t fair — it is n’t fair ! ” 

For ten years she had surrendered herself to 
Aunt Kitty — surrendered utterly the deep, bud- 
ding years of her young womanhood. To the last 
minute she had paid her obligations in full. Then, 
at the moment she had been about to spread her 
long-folded wings and soar into the sunshine, this 
other complication had come. When the lawyer 
Informed her of the fortune that was hers, she 


THE TRIFLERS 


36 

had caught her breath. It spelled freedom. Yet 
she asked for so little — for neither luxuries nor 
vanities; for just the privilege of leading for a 
space her own life, undisturbed by any responsi- 
bility. 

Selfish.^ Yes. But she had a right to be selfish 
for a little. She had answered that question when 
Peter Noyes — Monte reminded her in many ways 
of Peter — had come down to her farm in Little- 
field one Sunday. She had seen more of Peter 
than of any other man, and knew him to be honest. 
He had been very gentle with her, and very con- 
siderate; but she knew what was in his heart, so 
she had put the question to herself then and there. 
If she chose to follow the road to which he silently 
beckoned — the road to all those wonderful hopes 
that had surged in upon her at eighteen — she 
had only to nod. If she had let herself go, she 
could have loved Peter. Then — she drew back 
at so surrendering herself. It meant a new set of 
self-sacrifices. It meant, however hallowed, a new 
prison. Because, if she loved, she would love hard. 

Monte glanced at his w^atch again. 

“Five minutes gone! Have you seen him 
leave.?” 

“No, Monte,” she answered. 

He folded his arms resignedly. 

“You don’t really mean to act against my 
wishes, Monte?” 

“If that’s the only way of getting rid of him,” 
he answered coolly. 


A PROPOSAL 


37 

‘‘But don’t you see — don’t you understand 
that you will only make a scandal of it?” she said. 

“What do you mean?” 

“ If he makes a scene it will be in the papers, and 
then — oh, well, they will ask by what right — ” 

“ I ’d answer I was simply ridding you of a crazy 
man.” 

“They would smile. Oh, I know them! Here in 
Paris they won’t believe that a woman who is n’t 
married — ” 

She stopped abruptly. 

Monte’s brows came together. 

Here was the same situation that had con- 
fronted him a few minutes before. Not only had 
he no right, but if he assumed a right his claim 
might be misinterpreted. Undoubtedly Teddy 
himself would be the first to misinterpret it. It 
would be impossible for a man of his sort to think 
in any other direction. And then — well, such 
stories were easier to start than to stop. 

Monte’s lips came together. As far as he him- 
self was concerned, he was willing to take the risk; 
but the risk was not his to take. As long as he 
found himself unable to devise any scheme by 
which he could, even technically, make himself 
over into her father, her brother, or even a first 
cousin, there appeared no possible way in which 
he could assume the right that would not make it 
a risk. 

Except one way. ^ 

Here Monte caught his breath. 


38 


THE TRIFLERS 


There was just one relationship open to him 
that would bestow upon him automatically the 
undeniable right to say to Teddy Hamilton any- 
thing that might occur to him — that would grant 
him fuller privileges, now and for as long as the 
relationship was maintained, than even that of 
blood. 

To be sure, the idea was rather staggering. It 
was distinctly novel, for one thing, and not at all 
in his line, for another. This, however, was a crisis 
calling for staggering novelties if it could not be 
handled in the ordinary way. Ten minutes had 
already passed. 

Monte walked slowly to Marjory’s side. She 
turned and met his eyes. On the whole, he would 
have felt more comfortable had she continued 
looking out the window. 

“Marjory,” he said — “Marjory, will you 
marry me?” 

She shrank away. 

“Monte!” 

“I mean it,” he said. “Will you marry me?” 

After the first shock she seemed more hurt than 
anything. 

“You are n’t going to be like the others?” she 
pleaded. 

“No,” he assured her. “That’s why — well, 
that’s why I thought we might arrange it.” 

“But I don’t love you, Monte!” she exclaimed. 

“Of course not.” 

“And you — you don’t love me.” 


A PROPOSAL 


39 


‘^That’s it,” he nodded eagerly. 

^‘Yet you are asking me to marry you?” 

“Just because of that,” he said. “Don't you 
understand?” 

She was trying hard to understand, because she 
had a great deal of faith in Monte and because at 
this moment she needed him. 

“I don’t see why being engaged to a man you 
don’t care about need bother you at all,” he ran 
on. “It’s the caring that seems to make the 
trouble — whether you ’re engaged or not. I sup- 
pose that’s what ails Teddy.” 

She had been watching Monte’s eyes; but she 
turned away for a second. 

“Of course,” he continued, “you can care — 
without caring too much. Can’t people care in 
just a friendly sort of way?” 

“I should think so, Monte,” she answered. 

“Then why can’t people become engaged — in 
just a friendly sort of way?” 

“It would n’t mean very much, would it?” 

“Just enough,” he said. 

He held out his hand. 

“Is it a bargain?” 

She searched his eyes. They were clean and blue. 

“It ’s so absurd, Monte!” she gasped. 

“You can call me, to yourself, your secretary,” 
he suggested. 

“No — not that.” 

“Then,” he said, “call me just a camarade de 
voyage,^^ 


40 


THE TRIFLERS 


Her eyes warmed a trifle. 

‘‘I’ll keep on calling you just Monte,” she 
whispered. 

And she gave him her hand. 


CHAPTER V 


PISTOLS 

Evidently young Hamilton did not hear Monte 
come down the stairs, for he was sitting in 
a chair near the window, with his head in his 
hands, and did not move even when Monte en- 
tered the room. 

“Hello, Hamilton,” said Covington. 

Hamilton sprang to his feet — a shaking, ghastly 
remnant of a man. He had grown thinner and 
paler than when Covington last saw him. But his 
eyes — they held Covington for a moment. They 
burned in their hollow sockets like two candles in 
a dark room. 

“ Covington ! ” gasped the man. 

Then his eyes narrowed. 

“What the devil you doing here?” he de- 
manded. 

“ Sit down,” suggested Monte. “ I want to have 
a little talk with you.” 

It was physical weakness that forced Hamilton 
to obey. 

Monte drew up a chair opposite him. 

“Now,” he said quietly, “tell me just what it is 
you want of Miss Stockton.” 

“What business is that of yours?” demanded 
Hamilton nervously. 


THE TRIFLERS 


42 

Monte was silent a moment. Here at the start 
was the question Marjory had anticipated — the 
question that might have caused him some em- 
barrassment had it not been so adequately pro- 
vided for in the last few moments. As it was, he 
became conscious of a little glow of satisfaction 
which moderated his feelings toward young Ham- 
ilton considerably. He actually felt a certain 
amount of sympathy for him. After all, the little 
beggar was in bad shape. 

But, even now, there was no reason, just yet, 
why he should make him his confidant. Secure in 
his position, he felt it was none of Hamilton’s 
business. 

“Miss Stockton and I are old friends,” he 
answered. 

“Then — she has told you?” 

“ She gave me to believe you made a good deal 
of an ass of yourself this morning,” nodded Monte. 

Hamilton sank back limply in his chair. 

“I did,” he groaned. “Oh, my God, I did!” 

“All that business of waving a pistol — I did n’t 
think you were that much of a cub, Hamilton.” 

“ She drove me mad. I did n’t know what I was 
doing.” 

“In just what way do you blame her?” in- 
quired Monte. 

“She would n’t believe me,” exclaimed Hamil- 
ton. “I saw it in her eyes. I could n’t make her 
believe me.” 

“Believe what?” 


PISTOLS 


43 

Hamilton got to his feet and leaned against the 
wall. He was breathing rapidly, like a man in a 
fever. 

Monte studied him with a curious interest. 

‘‘That I love her,” gasped Hamilton. “She 
thought I was lying. I could n’t make her believe 
it, I tell you ! She just sat there and smiled — not 
believing.” 

“Good Lord!” said Monte. “You don’t mean 
that you really do love her?” 

Hamilton sprang with what little strength there 
was in him. 

“ Damn you, Covington — what do you think ? ” 
he choked. 

Monte caught the man by the arms and forced 
him again into his chair. 

“Steady,” he warned. 

Exhausted by his exertion, Hamilton sat there 
panting for breath, his eyes burning into Coving- 
ton’s. 

“What I meant,” said Monte, “was, do you 
love her with — with an honest-to-God love?” 

When Hamilton answered this time, Covington 
saw what Marjory meant when she wondered how 
Hamilton could look like a white-robed choir-boy 
as he sang to her. He had grown suddenly calm, 
and when he spoke the red light in his eyes had 
turned to white. 

“It’s with all there is in me, Covington,” he 
said. 

The pity of it was, of course, that so little was 


THE TRIFLERS 


44 

left in him — that so much had been wasted, so 
much soiled, in the last few years. The wonder 
was that so much was left. 

As Monte looked down at the man, he felt his 
own heart beating faster. He felt several other 
things that left him none too comfortable. Again 
that curious interest that made him want to listen, 
that held him with a weird fascination. 

“Tell me about it,” said Covington. 

Hamilton sat up with a start. He faced Cov- 
ington as if searching his soul. 

“Do you believe me?” he demanded. 

“Yes,” answered Monte; “I think I do.” 

“Because — did you see a play in New York 
called ‘ Peter Grimm ’ ? ” 

“I remember it,” nodded Monte. 

“It’s been like that — like dying and coming 
back and trying to make people hear, and not 
being able to. I made an ass of myself until I 
met her. I know that. I’m not fit to be in the 
same room with her. I know that you can say 
nothing too bad about me — up to the day I 
met her. I would n’t care what people said up 
to that day — if they’d only believe the rest; if 
she ’d only believe the rest. I think I could stand 
it even if I knew she — she did not care for me — 
if only I could make her understand how much 
she means to me.” 

Monte looked puzzled. 

“Just what does she mean to you?” he asked. 

“All that’s left in life,” answered Hamilton. 


PISTOLS 


4S 

"‘All that’s left to work for, to live for, to hope for. 
It’s been like that ever since I saw her on the boat. 
I was coming over here to go the old rounds, and 
then — everything was changed. There was no 
place to go, after that, except where she went. I 
counted the hours at night to the time when the 
sun came up and I could see her again. I did n’t 
begin to live until then; the rest of the time I 
was only waiting to live. Every time she came in 
sight it — it was as if I were resurrected, Coving- 
ton; as if in the mean while I’d been dead. I 
thought at first I had a chance, and I planned to 
come back home with her to do things. I wanted 
to do big things for her. I thought I had a chance 
all the while, until she came here — until this 
morning. Then, when she only smiled — well, I 
lost my head.” 

‘‘What was the idea back of the gun?” asked 
Monte. 

Hamilton answered without bravado. 

“I meant to end it for both of us; but I lost my 
nerve.” 

“Good Lord! You would have gone as far as 
that?” 

“Yes,” answered Hamilton wearily. “But I’m 
glad I fell down.” 

Monte passed his hand over his forehead. He 
could not fully grasp the meaning of a passion 
that led a man to such lengths as this. Why, the 
man had proposed murder — murder and suicide; 
and all because of this strange love of a woman. 


THE TRIFLERS 


46 

He had been driven stark raving mad because of 
it. He sat there now before him, an odd combi- 
nation of craven weakness and giant strength 
because of it. In the face of such a revelation, 
Covington felt petty; he felt negative. 

Less than ten minutes ago he himself had looked 
into the same eyes that had so stirred this man. 
He had seen nothing there particularly to disturb 
any one. They were very beautiful eyes, and the 
woman back of them was very beautiful. He had a 
feeling that, day in and day out for a great many 
years, they would remain beautiful. They had 
helped him last night to make the city his own; 
they had helped him this morning to recover his 
balance; they helped him now to see straight 
again. 

But, after all, it was arrant nonsense for Hamil- 
ton to act like this. Admitting the man believed 
in himself, — and Covington believed that much, 
— he was, after all, Teddy Hamilton. The fact 
remained, even as he himself admitted, that he 
was not fit to be in the same room with her. It was 
not possible for a man in a month to cleanse him- 
self of the accumulated mire of ten years. 

Furthermore, that too was beside the point. 
The girl cared nothing about him. She particu- 
larly desired not to care about him or any one 
else. It was not consistent with her scheme of 
life. She had told him as much. It was this that 
had made his own engagement to her possible. 

Monte rose from his chair and paced the room 


PISTOLS 


47 

a moment. If possible, he wished to settle this 
matter once for all. On the whole, it was more 
difficult than he had anticipated. When he came 
down he had intended to dispose of it in five 
minutes. Suddenly he wheeled and faced Ham- 
ilton. 

It seems to me,” he said, ‘‘that if a man loved 
a woman, — really loved her, — then one of the 
things he would be most anxious about would be 
to make her happy. Are you with me on that?” 

Hamilton raised his head. 

“Yes,” he answered. 

“Then,” continued Monte, “it does n’t seem to 
me that you are going about it in just the right 
way. Waving pistols and throwing fits — ” 

“I was mad, I tell you,” Hamilton broke in. 

“Admitting that,” resumed Monte, “I should 
think the best thing you could do would be to go 
away and sober up.” 

“Go away?” 

“I would. I’d go a long way — to Japan or 
India.” 

The old mad light came back to Hamilton’s 
eyes. 

“Did she ask you to tell me that?” 

“No,” answered Monte; “it is my own idea. 
Because, you see, if you don’t go she’ll have to.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Steady, now,” warned Monte. “I mean just 
what I say. She can’t stay here and let you camp 
in her front hall. Even Madame Courcy won’t 


THE TRIFLERS 


48 

stand for that. So — why don’t you get out, 
quietly and without any confusion?” 

“That’s your own suggestion?” said Hamilton, 
tottering to his feet. 

“Exactly.” 

“Then,” said Hamilton, “I’ll see you in hell 
first. It’s no business of yours, I say.” 

“But it is,” said Monte. 

“Tell me how it is,” growled Hamilton. 

“Why, you see,” said Monte quietly, “Miss 
Stockton and I are engaged.” 

“You lie!” choked Hamilton. “You — ” 

Monte heard a deafening report, and felt a biting 
pain in his shoulder. As he staggered back he saw 
a pistol smoking in Hamilton’s hand. Recovering, 
he threw himself forward on the man and bore 
him to the floor. 

It was no very difficult matter for Monte to 
wrest the revolver from Hamilton’s weak fingers, 
even with one arm hanging limp; but it was quite 
a. different proposition to quiet Madame CoUrcy 
and Marie, who were screaming hysterically in 
the hall. Marjory, to be sure, was splendid; but 
even she could do little with madame, who insisted 
that some one had been murdered, even when it 
was quite obvious, with both men alive, that this 
was a mistake. To make matters worse, she had 
called up the police on the telephone, and at least 
a dozen gendarmes were now on their way. 

The pain in Monte’s arm was acute, and it hung 
from his shoulder as limply as an empty sleeve; 


PISTOLS 


49 

but, fortunately, It was not bleeding a great deal, 
— or at least it was not messing things up, — and 
he was able, therefore, by always keeping his good 
arm toward the ladies, to conceal from them this 
disagreeable consequence of Hamilton’s rashness. 

Hamilton himself had staggered to his feet, and, 
leaning against the wall, was staring blankly at 
the confusion about him. 

Monte turned to Marjory. 

“Hurry out and get a taxi,” he said. “We 
can’t allow the man to be arrested.” 

“He tried to shoot — himself?” she asked. 

“ I don’t believe he knows what he tried to do. 
Hurry, please.” 

As she went out, he turned to Marie. 

“Help madame into her room,” he ordered. 

Madame did not want to go; but Monte im- 
patiently grasped one arm and Marie the other, 
so madame went. 

Then he came back to Hamilton. 

“Madame has sent for the police. Do you un- 
derstand?” 

“Yes,” Hamilton answered dully. 

“And I have sent for a taxi. It depends on 
which gets here first whether you go to jail or not,” 
said Monte. 

Then he sat down in a chair, because his knees 
were beginning to feel weak. 

Marjory was back in a minute, and when she 
came in Monte was on his feet again. 

“It’s at the door,” she said. 


THE TRIFLERS 


SO 

At the sound of her voice Hamilton seemed to 
revive; but Monte had him instantly by the arm. 

‘‘Come on/’ he ordered. 

He shoved the boy ahead a little as he passed 
Marjory, and turning, drew the revolver from his 
pocket. He did not dare take it with him, because 
he knew that in five minutes he would be unable 
to use it. Hamilton, on the other hand, might not 
be. He shoved it into her hand. 

“Take it upstairs and hide it,” he said. “Be 
careful with it.” 

“You’re coming back here?” she asked quickly„ 

She thought his cheeks were very white. 

“I can’t tell,” he answered. “But — don’t 
worry.” 

He hurried Hamilton down the steps and pushed 
him into the car. 

“To' the Hotel Normandie,” he ordered the 
driver, as he stumbled in himself. 

The bumping of the car hurt Monte’s arm a 
good deal. In fact, with every bump he felt as if 
Hamilton were prodding his shoulder with a sti- 
letto. Besides being unpleasant, this told rapidly 
on his strength, and that was dangerous. Above all 
things, he must remain conscious. Hamilton was 
quiet because he thought Monte still had the gun 
and was still able to use it; but let him sway, and 
matters would be reversed. So Monte gripped his 
jaws and bent his full energy to keeping control of 
himself until they crossed the Seine. It seemed 
like a full day’s journey before he saw that the 


PISTOLS 


SI 

muddy waters were behind them. Then he or- 
dered the driver to stop. 

Hamilton’s shifty eyes looked up. 

‘‘Hamilton,” said Monte, “have you got it 
clear yet that — that Miss Stockton and I are 
engaged?” 

Hamilton did not answer. His fingers were 
working nervously. 

Monte, summoning all his strength, shook the 
fellow. 

“Do you hear?” he called. 

“Yes,” muttered Hamilton. 

“Then,” said Monte, “I want you to get hold 
of the next point: that from now on you’re to let 
her alone. Get that?” 

Hamilton’s lips began to twitch. 

“Because if you come around bothering her any 
more,” explained Monte, “I’ll be there myself; 
and, believe me, you’ll go out the door. And if 
you try any more gun-play — the little fellows will 
nail you next time. Sure as preaching, they’ll nail 
you. That would be too bad for every one — for 
you and for her.” 

“How for her?” demanded Hamilton hoarsely. 

“The papers,” answered Monte. “And for you 
because — ” 

“I don’t care what they do to me,” growled 
Hamilton. 

“ I believe that,” nodded Monte. “Do you know 
that I ’m the one person on earth who is inclined 
to believe what you say?” 


52 


THE TRIFLERS 


He saw Hamilton crouch as if to spring. 
Monte placed his left hand in his empty pocket. 

“Steady,” he warned. “There are still four 
shots left in that gun.” 

Hamilton relaxed. 

“You don’t care what the little fellows do to 
you,” said Monte. “But you don’t want to queer 
yourself any further with her, do you 1 Now, listen. 
She thinks you tried to shoot yourself. By that 
much I have a hunch she thinks the better of you.” 

Hamilton groaned. 

“And because I believe what you told me about 
her,” he ran on, fighting for breath — “just be- 
cause' — because I believe the shooting fits into 
that, I ’m glad to — to have her think that little 
the better of you, Hamilton.” 

The interior of the cab was beginning to move 
slowly around in a circle. He leaned back his head 
a second to steady himself — his white lips pressed 
together. 

“ So — so — clear out,” he whispered. 

“You — you won’t tell her?” 

“No. But — clear out, quick.” 

Hamilton opened the cab door. 

“Got any money?” inquired Monte. 

“No.” 

Monte drew out his bill-book and handed it to 
Hamilton. 

“Take what there is,” he ordered. 

Hamilton obeyed, and returned the empty 
purse. 


PISTOLS 


S3 

‘‘Remember,’’ faltered Monte, his voice trailing 
off into an inaudible murmur, “we’re engaged — 
Marjory and I — ” 

But Hamilton had disappeared. It was the 
driver who was peering in the door. 

“Where next, monsieur?” he was saying. 

“Normandie,” muttered Monte. 

The windows began to revolve in a circle before 
his eyes — faster and faster, until suddenly he no 
longer was conscious of the pain in his shoulder. 


CHAPTER VI 


GENDARMES AND ETHER 

When the gendarmes came hurrying to sixty- 
four Boulevard Saint-Germain, Marjory was the 
only one in the house cool enough to meet them at 
the door. She quieted them with a smile. 

“It is too bad, messieurs,” she apologized, be- 
cause it did seem too bad to put them to so much 
trouble for nothing. “ It was only a disagreeable 
incident between friends, and it is closed. Madame 
Courcy lost her head.” 

“But we were told it was an assassination,” the 
lieutenant informed her. He was a very smart- 
looking lieutenant, and he noticed her eyes at once. 

“To have an assassination it is necessary to 
have some one assassinated, is it not?” inquired 
Marjory. 

“But yes, certainly.” 

“Then truly it is a mistake, because the two 
gentlemen went off together in a cab.” 

The lieutenant took out a memorandum-book. 

“Is that necessary?” asked Marjory anxiously. 

“A report must be made.” 

“It was nothing, I assure you,” she insisted. 
“It was what in America is called a false alarm.” 

“You are American?” inquired the lieutenant, 
twisting his mustache. 


GENDARMES AND ETHER 55 

“It is a compliment to my French that you did 
not know,” smiled Marjory. 

It was also a compliment to the lieutenant that 
she smiled. At least, it was so that he inter- 
preted it. 

“The report is only a matter of routine,” he 
informed her. “If mademoiselle will kindly give 
me her name.” 

“But the newspapers!” she exclaimed. “They 
make so much of so little.” 

“It will be a pleasure to see that the report is: 
treated as confidential,” said the lieutenant, with, 
a bow. 

So, as a matter of fact, after a perfunctory inter- 
view with madame and Marie, who had so far re- 
covered themselves as to be easily handled by 
Marjory, the lieutenant and his men bowed them- 
selves out and the incident was closed. 

Marjory escorted them to the door, and then, 
a little breathless with excitement, went into the 
reception room a moment to collect herself. 

The scene was set exactly as it had been when 
from upstairs she heard that shot — the shot that 
for a second had checked her breathing as if she 
herself had been hit. As clearly as if she had been 
in the room, she had seen Monte stretched out on 
the fioor, with Hamilton bending over himt She 
had not thought of any other possibility. As she 
sprang down the stairs she had been sure of what 
she was about to see. But when she entered she 
had found Monte standing erect — erect and. 


56 THE TRIFLERS 

smiling, with his light hair all awry like a school- 
boy’s. 

Then, sinking into the chair near the window, — 
this very chair beside which she now stood, — he 
had asked her to go out and attend to madame. 

Come to think of it, it was odd that he had been 
smiling. It was not quite natural for one to smile 
over as serious a matter as that. After all, even 
if Teddy was melodramatic, even if his shot had 
missed its mark, it was not a matter to take lightly. 

She seated herself in the chair he had occupied, 
and her hands dropped wearily to her side. Her 
fingers touched something sticky — something on 
the side of the chair next to the wall — something 
that the gendarmes had not noticed. She did 
not dare to move them. She was paralyzed, as 
if her fingers had met some cold, strange hand. 
For one second, two seconds, three seconds, she 
sat there transfixed, fearing, if she moved as 
much as a muscle, that something would spring at 
her from below — some awful fact. 

Then finally she did move. She moved slowly, 
with her eyes closed. Then, suddenly opening them 
wide, she saw her fingers stained carmine. She 
knew then why Monte had smiled. It was like 
him to do that. Running swiftly to her room, she 
called Marie as she ran. 

‘‘Marie — my hat! Yourliat! Hurry!” 

“Oh, mon Dieu!” exclaimed Marie. “Has any- 
thing happened.^” f 

“I have just learned what has already hap- 


GENDARMES AND ETHER 57 

pened,” she answered. ^‘But do not alarm 
madame.” 

It was impossible not to alarm madame. 

The mere fact that they were going out 
alarmed madame. Marjory stopped in the hall 
and quite coolly worked on her gloves. 

‘‘We are going for a little walk in the sunshine,’^ 
she said. “Will you not come with us?’’ 

Decidedly madame would not. She was too 
weak and faint. She should send for a friend to 
stay with her while she rested on her bed. 

“That is best for you,” nodded Marjory. “Au 
revoir.” 

With Marie by her side, she took her little walk 
in the sunshine, without hurrying, as far as around 
the first corner. Then she signaled for a cab, and 
showed the driver a louis d’or. 

“Hotel Normandie. This is for you — if you 
make speed,” she said. 

It was a wonder the driver was not arrested 
within a block; but it was nothing less than a 
miracle that he reached the hotel without loss of 
life. A louis d’or is a great deal of money, but 
these Americans are all mad. When Marie fol- 
lowed her mistress from the cab, she made a little 
prayer of thanks to the bon Dieu who had saved 
her life. 

Mademoiselle inquired of the clerk for Monsieur 
Covington. 

Yes, Monsieur Covington had reached the hotel 
some fifteen minutes before. But he was ill. He 


58 THE TRIFLERS 

had met with an accident. Already a surgeon was 
with him. 

‘‘He — he is not badly injured?” inquired 
Marjory. 

“I do not know,” answered the clerk. “He 
was carried to his room in a faint. He was very 
white.” 

“ I will wait in the writing-room. When the sur- 
geon comes down I wish to see him. At once — do 
you understand?” 

“Yes, madem.oiselle.” 

Marie suspected what had happened. Monsieur 
Covington, too, had presented the driver with a 
louis d’or, and — miracles do not occur twice in 
one day. 

Marjory seated herself by a desk, where she had 
a full view of the office — of all who came in and 
all who went out. That she was here doing this 
and that Monte Covington was upstairs wounded 
by a pistol shot was confusing, considering the 
fact that as short a time ago as yesterday evening 
she had not been conscious of the existence in 
Paris of either this hotel or of Monsieur Coving- 
ton. Of the man who, on the other hand, had 
been disturbing her a great deal — this Teddy 
Hamilton — she thought not at all. It was as if 
he had ceased to exist. She did not even associate 
him, at this moment, with her presence here. She 
was here solely because of Monte. 

He had stood by the window in Madame Cour- " 
cy’s dingy reception room, smiling — his hair all 


GENDARMES AND ETHER 59 

awry. She recalled many other details now: how 
his arm had hung limp ; how he had been to a good 
deal of awkward trouble to keep his left arm 
always toward her; how white he had been when 
he passed her on his way out; how he had seemed 
to stumble when he stepped into the cab. 

She must have been a fool not to understand 
that something was wrong with him — the more 
so because only a few minutes before that he had 
stood before her with his cheeks a deep red, his 
body firm, his eyes clear and bright. 

That was when he had asked her to marry him. 
Monte Covington had asked her to marry him, 
and she had consented. With her chin in her hand, 
she thought that over. He had asked her in order 
that it might be his privilege to go downstairs and 
rid her of Teddy. It had been suggested in a mo- 
ment, and she had consented in a moment. So, 
technically, she was at this moment engaged. The 
man upstairs was her fiance. That gave her the 
right to be here. It was as if this had all been 
arranged beforehand to this very end. 

It was this feature of her strange position that 
interested her. She had been more startled, more 
excited, when Monte proposed, than she was at 
this moment. It had taken away her breath at first; 
but now she was able to look at it quite coolly. He 
did not love her, he said. Good old Monte — hon« 
est and four-square. Of course he did not love 
her. Why should he. ^ He was leading his life, with 
all the wide world to wander over, free to do this 


6o 


THE TRIFLERS 


or to do that; utterly without care; utterly with- 
out responsibility. 

It was this that had always appealed to her in 
him ever since she had first known him. It was 
this that had made her envious of him. It was 
exactly as she would have done in his circum- 
stances. It was exactly as she tried to do when 
her own circumstances changed so that it had 
seemed possible. She had failed merely because 
she was a woman — because men refused to leave 
her free. 

His proposal was merely that she share his free- 
dom. Good old Monte — honest and four-square! 

In return, there were little ways in which she 
might help him, even as he might help her; but 
they had come faster than either had expected. 

Where was the surgeon ? She rose and went to 
the clerk. 

‘‘Are you sure the surgeon has not gone?’’ she 
asked. 

“Very sure,” answered the clerk. “He has just 
sent out for a nurse to remain with monsieur.” 

“A nurse?” repeated Marjory. 

“The doctor says Monsieur Covington must 
not be left alone.” 

“It’s as bad — as that?” questioned Marjory. 

“I do not know.” 

“I must see the doctor at once,” she said. 
“But, first, — can you give me apartments on the 
same floor, — for myself and maid? I am his 
fiancee,” she informed him. 


GENDARMES AND ETHER 6i 


“I can give mademoiselle apartments adjoin- 
ing,” said the clerk eagerly. 

‘‘Then do so.” 

She signed her name in the register, and beck- 
oned for Marie. 

“Marie,” she said, “you may return and finish 
packing my trunks. Please bring them here.” 

“Here?” queried Marie. 

“Here,” answered Marjory. 

She turned to the clerk. 

“Take me upstairs at once.” 

There was a strong smell of ether in the hall 
outside the door of Monte Covington’s room. It 
made her gasp for a moment. It seemed to make 
concrete what, after all, had until this moment 
been more or less vague. It was like fiction sud- 
denly made true. That pungent odor was a grim 
reality. So was that black-bearded Dr. Marcellin, 
who, leaving his patient in the hands of his assist- 
ant, came to the door wiping his hands upon a 
towel. 

“ I am Mr. Covington’s fiancee — Miss Stock- 
ton,” she said at once. “You will tell me the 
truth?” 

After one glance at her eyes Dr. Marcellin was 
willing to teU the truth. 

“It is an ugly bullet wound in his shoulder,” he 
said. 

“It is not serious?’’ 

“Such things are always serious. Luckily, I was 
able to find the bullet and remove it. It was a 
narrow escape for him.” 


62 THE TRIFLERS 

‘‘Of course,” she added, “I shall serve as his 
nurse.” 

“Good,” he nodded. 

But he added, having had some experience with 
fiancees as nurses : — 

“Of course I shall have for a week my own 
nurse also; but I shall be glad of your assistance. 
This — er — was an accident?” 

She nodded. 

“He was trying to save a foolish friend from 
killing himself.” 

“I understand.” 

“Nothing more need be said about it?” 

“Nothing more,” Dr. Marcellin assured her. 

If you will come in I will give you your instruc- 
tions. Mademoiselle Duval will soon be here.” 

“ Is she necessary ? ” inquired Marjory. “ I have 
^engaged the next apartment for myself and maid.” 

“That is very good, but — Mademoiselle Duval 
is necessary for the present. Will you come in?” 

She followed the doctor into Monsieur Cov- 
ington’s room. There the odor of ether hung still 
heavier. 

i She heard him muttering a name. She listened 
to catch it. 

“Edhart,” he called. “Oh, Edhart!” 


CHAPTER VII 

THE ADVANTAGES OF BEING SHOT 

Under proper conditions, being wounded in the 
shoulder may have its pleasant features. They 
were not so obvious to Monte in the early part of 
the evening, because he was pretty much befuddled 
with ether; but sometime before dawn he woke. up 
feeling fairly normal and clear-headed and inter- 
ested. This was where fifteen years of clean living 
counted for something. When Marcellin and his 
assistant had first stripped Monte to the waist 
the day before, they had paused for a moment to 
admire what they called his torso. It was not 
often, in their city practice, that they ran across a 
man of thirty with muscles as clearly outlined as in 
an anatomical illustration. 

Monte was conscious of a burning pain in his 
shoulder, and he was not quite certain as to where 
he was. So he hitched up on one elbow. This 
caused a shadow to detach itself from the dark at 
the other end of the room — a shadow that rus- 
tled and came toward him. It is small wonder that 
he was startled. 

“Who the deuce are you?” he inquired in plain 
English. 

“Monsieur is not to sit up,” the shadow an- 
swered in plain French. 


64 the TRIFLERS 

Monte repeated his question, this time in 
French. 

“lam the nurse sent here by Dr. Marcellin,’’ 
she informed him. “Monsieur is not to talk.” 

She placed her hand below his neck and helped 
him to settle down again upon his pillow. Then 
she rustled off again beyond the range of the 
shaded electric light. 

“What happened?” Monte called into the dark. 

Then he thought he heard a door open, and 
further rustling, and a whispered conversation. 

“Who’s that?” he demanded. 

It sounded like a conspiracy of some sort, so he 
tried again to make his elbow. Mademoiselle 
appeared promptly, and, again placing her hand 
beneath his neck, lowered him once more to his 
pillow. 

“Turn up the light, will you ? ” requested Monte. 

“But certainly not,” answered the nurse. 
“Monsieur is to lie very quiet and sleep.” 

“I can’t sleep.” 

“Perhaps it will help monsieur to be quiet if he 
knows his fiancee is in the next room.” 

Momentarily this announcement appeared to 
have directly the opposite effect. 

“My what?” gasped Monte. 

“Monsieur’s fiancee. With her maid, she is 
occupying the next apartment in order to be near 
monsieur. If you are very quiet to-night, it is pos- 
sible that to-morrow the doctor will permit you to 
see her.” 


ON BEING SHOT 65 

^‘Was that she who came in and whispered to 
you?’’ 

“Yes, monsieur.” 

Monte remained quiet after that — but he was 
not sleeping. He was thinking. 

In the first place, this was enough to make him 
recall all that had happened. This led him to 
speculate on all that might be about to happen — 
how much he could not at that moment even 
imagine. Neither line of thought was conducive 
to sleep. 

Marjory was in the next room, awake, and at 
the sound of his voice had come in. In the dark, 
even with this great night city of Paris asleep 
around him, she had come near enough so that he 
heard the rustle of her skirt and her whispering 
voice. That was unusual — most unusual — and 
rather satisfactory. If worse came to worse and he 
reached a point where it was necessary for him to 
talk to some one, he could get her in here again in 
spite of this nurse woman. He had only to call her 
name. Not that he really had any intention in the 
world of doing it. The idea rather embarrassed 
him. He would not know what to say to a young 
lady at this hour of the night — even Marjory. 
But there she was — some one from home, some 
one he knew and who knew him. It was like hav- 
ing Edhart within reach. 

In this last week he had sometimes awakened 
as he was now awake, and the silence had op- 
pressed him. Ordinarily there was nothing morbid 


66 


THE TRIFLERS 


about Monte, but Edhart’s death and the big 
empty space that was left all about Nice, the si- 
lence where once he had been so sure of hearing 
Edhart’s voice, the ghostly reminders of Edhart 
in those who clicked about in Edhart’s bones 
without his flesh — all these things had given 
Monte’s thoughts an occasional novel trend. 

Once or twice he had gone as far as to picture 
himself as upon the point of death here in this 
foreign city. It was a very sad, a melancholy 
thing to speak about. He might call until he was 
hoarse, and no one would answer except possibly 
the night clerk or a gendarme. And they would 
look upon him only as something of a nuisance. It 
is really pathetic — the depths of misery into 
which a healthy man may, in such a mood, plunge 
himself. 

All around him the dark, silent city, asleep save 
for the night clerks, the gendarmes, the evildoers, 
and the merrymakers. And these last would only 
leer at him. If he did not join them, then it was 
his fault if he lay dying alone. 

“Is she in there now?” Monte called to the 
nurse in the dark. 

“ Certainly, monsieur. But I thought you were 
sleeping.” 

No, he was not sleeping; but he did not mind 
now the pain in his shoulder. She had announced 
herself as his fiancee. Well, technically, she was. 
He had asked her to marry him, and she had 
accepted. At the time he had not seen much 


ON BEING SHOT 


67 

farther ahead than the next few minutes; and even 
then had not foreseen what was to happen in those 
few minutes. The proposal had given him his 
right to talk to Hamilton, and her acceptance — 
well, it had given Marjory her right to be here. 

Curious thing about that code of rights and 
wrongs ! Society was a stickler for form. If either 
he or Marjory had neglected the preliminaries, 
then he might have lain here alone for a week, 
with society shaking its Puritan head. This nurse 
woman might have come, but she did not count; 
and, besides, he had to get shot before even she 
would be allowed. 

Now it was all right. It was all right and proper 
for her, all right and proper for him, all right and 
proper for society. Not only that, but it was so 
utterly normal that society would have frowned if 
she had not hurried to his side in such an emer- 
gency. It forced her here, willy-nilly. Perhaps 
that was the only reason she was here. 

Still, he did not like to think that. She was too 
true blue to quit a friend. It would be more like 
her to come anyway. He remembered how she had 
stood by that old aunt to the end. She would be 
standing by her to-day were she alive. Even Chic, 
who fulfilled his own obligations to the last word, 
had sometimes urged her to lead her own life, and 
she had only smiled. There was man stuff in her. 

It showed when she announced to these people 
her engagement. He did not believe she did that 
either because it was necessary or proper. She did 


68 


THE TRIFLERS 


it because it was the literal truth, and she was not 
ashamed of the literal truth in anything. 

“Is Mademoiselle Stockton sitting up — there 
in the next room?” 

“ I do not know,” answered the nurse. 

“Do you mind finding out for me?” 

“ If monsieur will promise to sleep after that.” 

“How can a man promise to sleep?” 

Even under normal conditions, that was a fool- 
ish thing to promise. But when a man was ex- 
periencing brand-new sensations — the sensations 
of being engaged — it was quite impossible to 
make such a promise. 

“Monsieur can at least promise not to talk.” 

“ I will do that,” agreed Monte. 

She came back and reported that mademoiselle 
was sitting up, and begged to present her regards 
and express the hope that he was resting com- 
fortably. 

“Please to tell her I am, and that I hope she 
will now go to bed,” he answered. 

Nurse Duval did that, and returned. 

“What did she say? ” inquired Monte. 

“But, monsieur — ” 

She had no intention of spending the rest of the 
night as a messenger between those two rooms. 

“Very well,” submitted Monte. “But you 
might tell me what she said.” 

“She said she was not sleepy,” answered the 
nurse. 

“Pm glad she’s awake,” said Monte. 


ON BEING SHOT 69 

Just because he was awake. In a sense, It gave 
them this city for themselves. It was as if this im- 
mediately became their city. That was not good 
arithmetic. Assuming that the city contained a 
population of three millions, — he did not have 
his Baedeker at hand, — then clearly he could con- 
sider only one three millionth part of the city as 
his. With her awake in the next room, that made 
only two of them, so that taken collectively they 
had a right to claim only two three-millionths 
parts as belonging to them. Yet that was not the 
way it worked out. As far as he was concerned, 
the other two millions nine hundred and ninety- 
nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight did 
not exist. 

There was nothing sentimental about this con- 
clusion. He did not think of it as it affected her — 
merely as it affected him. It gave him rather a 
comfortable, completed feeling, as if he now had 
within himself the means for peacefully enjoying 
life, wherever he might be, even at thirty-two. 
Under the influence of this soothing thought, he 
fell asleep again. 

After the doctors were through with Monte the 
next morning, they decided, after a consultation, 
that there was no apparent reason why, during the 
day. Miss Stockton, if she desired, should not 
serve as his nurse while Miss Duval went home 
to sleep. 

• ‘^My assistant will come in at least twice,” said 


THE TRIFLERS 


70 

Dr. Marcellin. ‘‘Besides, you have the constitu- 
tion of a prize-fighter. It might well be possible to 
place a bullet through the heart of such a man 
without greatly discommoding him.” 

He spoke as if with some resentment. 

After they had gone out, Marjory came in. She 
hesitated at the door a moment, perhaps to make 
sure that he was awake; perhaps to make sure that 
she herself was awake. Monte, from the bed, could 
see her better than she could see him. He thought 
she looked whiter than usual, but she was very 
beautiful. 

There was something about her that distin- 
guished her from other women — from this nurse 
woman, for example, who was the only other 
woman with whom it was possible to compare her 
in a like situation. With one hand resting on the 
door, her chin well up, she looked more than ever 
like Her Royal Highness Something or Other. She 
was dressed in something white and light and 
fluffy, like the gowns he used to see on Class Day. 
Around her white throat there was a narrow band 
of black velvet. 

“Good-morning, Marjory,” he called. 

She came at once to his side, walking graciously, 
as a princess might walk. 

“I did n’t know if you were awake,” she said. 

It was one thing to have her here in the dark, 
and another to have her here in broad daylight. 
The sun was streaming in at the windows now, and 
outside the birds were chattering. 


ON BEING SHOT 


71 


^‘Did you rest well last night?” she inquired. 

‘‘I heard you when you came in and whispered 
to the nurse woman. It was mighty white of you 
to come.” 

“What else could I do ? ” She seated herself in a 
chair by his bed. 

“Because we are engaged?” he asked. 

She smiled a little as he said that. 

“Then you have not forgotten?” 

“Forgotten!” he exclaimed. “I’m just begin- 
ning to realize it.” 

“ I was afraid it might come back to you as a 
shock, Monte,” she said. “But it is very con- 
venient — at just this time.” 

“ I don’t know what I should have done without 
it,” he nodded. “ It certainly gives a man a com- 
fortable feeling to know — well, just to know 
there is some one around.” 

“I’m glad if I’ve been able to do anything.” 

“It’s a whole lot just having you here,” he 
assured her. 

It changed the whole character of this room, 
for one thing. It ceased to be merely a hotel room 
— merely number fifty-four attached with a big 
brass star to a key. It was more like a room in the 
Hotel des Roses, which was the nearest to home 
of any place Monte had found in a decade. It was 
as if when she came in she completely refurnished 
it with little things with which he was familiar. 
Edhart always used to place flowers in his apart- 
ment; and it was like that. 


THE TRIFLERS 


72 

‘‘The only bother with the arrangement,” he 
said, looking serious, “is that it takes your time. 
Ought n’t you to be at Julien’s this morning?” 

She had forgotten about Julien’s. Yet for the 
last two years it had been the very center of her 
own individual life. Now the crowded studio, the 
smell of turpentine, the odd cosmopolitan gather- 
ing of fellow students, the little pangs following 
the bitter criticisms of the master, receded into 
the background until they became as a dream of 
long ago. 

“ I don’t think I shall ever go to Julien’s again,” 
she answered. 

“But look here — that won’t do,” he objected. 
“If I’m to interfere with all your plans — ” 

“It isn’t that, Monte,” she assured him. 
“Ever since I came back this last time, I knew I 
did n’t belong there. When Aunt Kitty was alive 
it was all the opportunity I had; but now — ” 
She paused. 

“Well?” 

“ I have my hands full with you until you get 
out again,” she answered lightly. 

“That’s what I object to,” he said. “If being 
engaged is going to pin you down, then I don’t 
think you ought to be engaged. You’ve had 
enough of that in your life.” 

The curious feature of her present position was 
that she had no sense of being pinned down. She 
had thought of this in the night. She had never 
felt freer in her life. Within a few hours of her en- 


ON BEING SHOT 


73 

gagement she had been able to do exactly what 
she wished to do without a single qualm of con- 
science. She had been able to come here and look 
after him in this emergency. She would have done 
this anyway, but she knew how Marcellin and his 
assistant and even Nurse Duval would have made 
her pay for her act — an act based upon nothing 
but decent loyalty and honest responsibility. 
Raised eyebrows — gossip in the air — covert 
smiles — the whole detestable atmosphere of in- 
trigue with which they would have surrounded 
her, had vanished as by a spell before the magic 
word fiancee. She was breathing air like that upon 
the mountain-tops. It was sweet and clean and 
bracing. 

“Monte,” she said, “I’m doing at this moment 
just exactly what I want to do; and you can’t un- 
derstand what a treat that is, because you’ve 
always done just exactly as you wanted. I ’m sure 
I ’m entirely selfish about this, because — because 
I’m not making any sacrifice. You can’t under- 
stand that, either, Monte, — so please don’t try. 
I think we’d better not talk any more about 
it. Can’t we just let it go on as it is a little 
while?” 

“It suits me,” smiled Monte. “So maybe I’m 
selfish, too.” 

“Maybe,” she nodded. “Now I’ll see about 
your breakfast. The doctor told me just what you 
must have.” 

So she went out — moving away like a vision in 


THE TRIFLERS 


74 

dainty white across the room and out the door. A 
few minutes later she was back again with a vase 
of red roses, which she arranged upon the table 
where he could see them. 


CHAPTER VIII 

DRAWBACKS OF RECOVERY 

Monte’s recovery was rapid — in many ways 
more rapid than he desired. In a few days Nurse 
Duval disappeared, and in a few days more Monte 
was able to dress himself with the help of the 
hotel valet, and sit by the window while Marjory 
read to him. Half the time he gave no heed to 
what she was reading, but that did not detract 
from his pleasure in the slightest. He liked the 
sound of her voice, and liked the idea of sitting 
opposite her. 

Her eyes were always interesting when she read. 
For then she forgot about them and let them have 
their own way — now to light with a smile, now 
to darken with disapproval, and sometimes to grow 
very tender, as the story she happened to be read- 
ing dictated. 

This was luxury such as Monte had never 
known, and for more than ten years now he had 
ordered of the world its choicest in the way of 
luxury. 

At his New York club the experience of many, 
many years in catering to man comfort was 
placed at his disposal. As far as possible, every de- 
sire was anticipated, so that little more effort was 
required of him than merely to furnish the desires. 


THE TRIFLERS 


76 

In a house where no limit whatever had been set 
upon the expense, a hundred lackeys stood ready 
to jump if a man as much as raised an eyebrow. 
And they understood, those fellows, what a man 
needs — from the chef who searched the markets 
of the world to satisfy tender tastes, to the door- 
man who acquainted himself with the names of 
the members and their personal idiosyncrasies. 

That same service was furnished him, if to a more 
limited extent, on the transatlantic liners, where 
Monte’s name upon the passenger list was imme- 
diately passed down the line with the word that he 
must have the best. At Davos his needs were an- 
ticipated a week in advance; at Nice there had 
been Edhart, who added his smiling self to every- 
thing else. 

But no one at his club, on the boat, or at Davos 
— not even Edhart — had given him this : this 
being the somewhat vague word he used to de- 
scribe what he was now enjoying as Marjory sat 
by the window reading to him. It had nothing 
to do with being read aloud to. He could at any 
time have summoned a valet to do that, and in 
five minutes would have felt like throwing the 
book — any book — at the valet’s head. It had 
nothing to do with the mere fact that she was a 
woman. Nurse Duval could not have taken her 
place. Kind as she had been, he was heartily bored 
with her before she left. 

It would seem, then, that in some mysterious 
way he derived his pleasure from Marjory herself. 


DRAWBACKS OF RECOVERY 77 

But, if so, then she had gone farther than all those 
who made it their life-work to see that man was 
comfortable; for they satisfied only existing wants, 
while she created a new one. Whenever she left 
the room he was conscious of this want. 

Yet, when Monte faced the issue squarely and 
asked himself if this were not a symptom of being 
in love, he answered it as fairly as he could out of 
an experience that covered Chic Warren’s pre- 
nuptial brain-storms; a close observation of several 
dozen honeymoon couples on shipboard, to say 
nothing of many incipient cases which started 
there; and, finally, the case of Teddy Hamilton. 

The leading feature of all those distressing ex- 
amples seemed to indicate that, while theoretically 
the man was in an ideal state of blissful ecstasy, he 
was, practically, in a condition bordering on mad- 
ness. At the very moment he was supposed to be 
happy, he was about half the time most miserable. 
Even at its best, it did not make for comfort. Poor 
Chic ran the gamut every week from hell to 
heaven. It was with a sigh of relief that Monte 
was able to answer his own question conscien- 
tiously in the negative. It was just because he 
was able to retain the use of his faculties that he 
was able to enjoy the situation. 

Monte liked to consider himself thoroughly nor- 
mal in everything. As far as he had any theory 
of life, it was based upon the wisdom of keeping 
cool — of keeping normal. To get the utmost out 
of every day, this was necessary. It was not the 


THE TRIFLERS 


78 

man who drank too much who enjoyed his wine: 
it was the man who drank little. That was true of 
everything. If Hamilton had only kept his head 
— well, after all, Monte was indebted to Hamilton 
for not having kept his head. 

Monte was not in love : that was certain. Mar- 
jory was not in love: that also was certain. This 
was why he was able to light his cigarette, lean 
back his head on the pillow she arranged, and 
drift into a state of dreamy content as she read 
to him. This happy arrangement might go on 
forever except that, in the course of time, his 
shoulder was bound to heal. And then— he knew 
well enough that old Dame Society was even at 
the end of these first ten days beginning to 
fidget. He knew that Marjory knew it, too. It 
began the day Dr. Marcellin advised him to take 
a walk in the Champs Ely sees. 

He was perfectly willing to do that. It was 
beautiful out there. They sat down at one of the 
little iron tables — the little tables were so warm 
and sociable now — and beneath the whispering 
trees sipped their cafe au lait. But the fact that he 
was able to get out of his room seemed to make a 
difference in their thoughts. It was as if his status 
had changed. It was as if those who passed him, 
with a glance at his arm in its sling, stopped to tell 
him so. 

It was none of their business, at that. It would 
have been sheer presumption of them to have 
butted into any of the other affairs of his life: 


DRAWBACKS OF RECOVERY 79 

whether he was losing money or making money; 
whether he was going to England or to Spain, or 
going to remain where he was; whether he pre- 
ferred chops for breakfast, or bread and coffee. 
Theoretically, then, it was sheer presumption for 
them to interest themselves in the question of 
whether he was an invalid confined to his room, or 
a convalescent able to get out, or a man wholly 
recovered. 

Yet he knew that, with every passing day that 
he came out into the sunshine, these same people 
were managing to make Marjory’s position more 
and more delicate. It became increasingly less 
comfortable for her and for him when they re- 
turned to the hotel. 

Therefore he was not greatly surprised when she 
remarked one morning : — 

“Monte, IVe been thinking over where I shall 
go, and I Ve about decided to go to Etois.” 

“When?” he asked. 

“Very soon — before the end of the week, any- 
way.” 

“But look here!” he protested. “What am I 
going to do?” 

“ I don’t know,” she smiled. “ But one thing is 
certain: you can’t play sick very much longer.” 

“The doctor says it will be another two weeks 
before my arm is out of the sling.” 

“Even so, the rest of you is well. There is n’t 
much excuse for my bringing in your breakfasts, 
Monte.” 


8o 


THE TRIFLERS 


‘‘Do you mind doing it?” 

“No.” 

“Who is to tie on this silk handkerchief?” He 
wore a black silk handkerchief over his bandages, 
which she always adjusted for him. 

She met his eyes a moment, and smiled again. 

“ I ’m going to Etois,” she said. “ I think I shall 
get a little villa there and stay all summer.” 

“Then,” he declared, “I think I shall go to 
Etois myself.” 

“ I ’m afraid you must n’t.” 

“But the doctor says I must n’t play golf for 
six months. What do you think I’m going to do 
with myself until then?” 

“There’s all the rest of the world,” she sug- 
gested. 

Monte frowned. 

“Are you going to break our engagement, 
then?” 

“It has served its purpose, hasn’t it?” she 
asked. 

“Up to now,” he admitted. “But you say it 
can’t go any farther.” 

“No, Monte.” 

The next suggestion that leaped into Monte’s 
mind was obvious enough, yet he paused a mo- 
ment before voicing it. Perhaps even then he 
would not have found the courage had he not been 
rather panic-stricken. He had exactly the same 
feeling, when he thought of her in Etois, that he 
had when he thought of Edhart in Paradise. It 


DRAWBACKS OF RECOVERY 8i 

started as resentment, but ended in a slate-gray 
loneliness. 

He could imagine himself as sitting here alone 
at one of these little iron tables, and decidedly it 
was not pleasant. When he pictured himself as 
returning to his room in the hotel and to the com- 
pany of the hotel valet, it put him in a mood that 
augured ill for the valet. 

It would have been bad enough had he been able 
to resume his normal schedule and fill his time with 
golf; but, with even that relaxation denied him, 
such a situation as she proposed was impossible. 
For the present, at any rate, she was absolutely in- 
dispensable. She ought to know that a valet could 
not adjust a silk handkerchief properly, and that 
without this he could not even go upon the street. 
And who would read to him from the American 
papers.^ 

There was no further excuse, she said, for her 
to bring in his breakfasts, but if she did not sit 
opposite him at breakfast, what in thunder was 
the use of eating breakfast? If she had not begun 
breakfasting with him, then he would never have 
known the difference. But she had begun it; she 
had first suggested it. And now she calmly pro- 
posed turning him over to a valet. 

“Marjory,” he said, “didn’t I ask you to 
marry me?” 

She nodded. 

“That was necessary in order that we might be 
engaged,” she reminded him. 


82 


THE TRIFLERS 


‘‘Exactly,” he agreed. “Now there seems to be 
only one way that we may keep right on being 
engaged.” 

“I don’t see that, Monte,” she answered. “We 
may keep on being engaged as long as we please, 
may n’t we?” 

“ It seems not. That is, there is n’t much sense 
in it if it won’t let me go to Etois with you.” 

“ Of course you can’t do that.” 

“And yet,” he said, “if we were married I could 
go, could n’t I?” 

“Why — er — yes,” she faltered; “I suppose 
so.” 

“Then,” he said, “why don’t we get married?” 

She did not turn away her head. She lifted her 
dark eyes to his. 

“Just what do you mean, Monte?” she de- 
manded. 

“ I mean,” he said uneasily, “that we should get 
married just so that we can go on — as we have 
been these last ten days. Really, we’ll still only 
be engaged, but no one need know that. Besides, 
no one will care, if we’re married.” 

He gained confidence as he went on, though he 
was somewhat afraid of the wonder in her eyes. 

“People don’t care anything more about you 
after you ’re married,” he said. “They just let you 
drop as if you were done for. It’s a queer thing, 
but they do. Why, if we were married we could sit 
here all day and no one would give us a second 
glance. We could have breakfast together as often 


DRAWBACKS OF RECOVERY 83 

as we wished, and no one would care a hang. I Ve 
seen it done. We could go to Etois together, and I 
could pay for half the villa and you could pay for 
half. You can bring Marie, and we can stay as 
long as we wish without having any one turn an 
eye.” 

He was growing enthusiastic now. 

‘‘There will be nothing to prevent you from 
doing just as you wish. You can paint all day if 
you want. You can paint yards of things — olive 
trees and sky and rocks. There are lots of them 
around Etois. And I — ” 

“Yes,” she interrupted; “what can you do, 
Monte?” 

“I can watch you paint,” he answered. “Or I 
can walk. Or I can — oh, there’ll be plenty for 
me to do. If we tire of Etois we can move some- 
where else. If we tire of each other’s company, 
why, we can each go somewhere else. It’s simple, 
is n’t it? We can both do just as we please, can’t 
we ? There won’t be a living soul with the right to 
open his head to us. Do you get that? Why, even 
if you want to go off by yourself, with Mrs. in 
front of your name they’ll let you alone.” 

At first she had been surprised, then she had 
been amused, but now she was thinking. 

“It’s queer, is n’t it, Monte, that it should be 
like that?” 

“It’s the way it is. It makes everything simple 
and puts the whole matter up to us.” 

“Yes,” she admitted thoughtfully. 


84 


THE TRIFLERS 


course,” he said, “Pm assuming you don’t 
mind having me around quite a lot.” 

“No, I don’t mind that,” she assured him. 
“But I ’m wondering if you’ll mind — having me 
around?” 

“ I did n’t realize until this last week how — 
well, how comfortable it was having you around,” 
he confessed. 

She glanced up. 

“Yes,” she said, “that’s the word. I think 
we’ve made each other comfortable. After all — 
that’s something.” 

“It’s a whole lot.” , 

“And it need n’t ever be anything else, need 
it?” 

“Certainly not,” he declared. “That would 
spoil everything. That’s what we’re trying to 
avoid.” 

To his surprise, she suddenly rose as if to leave. 

“Look here!” he exclaimed. “Can’t we settle 
this right now — so that we won’t have to worry 
about it?” 

He disliked having anything left to worry about. 

“I should think the least you’d expect of me 
would be to think it over,” she answered. 

“ It would be so much simpler just to go ahead,” 
he declared. 

There seemed to be no apparent reason in the 
world why she should not assent to Monte’s pro- 
posal. In and of itself, the arrangement offered 


DRAWBACKS OF RECOVERY 85 

her exactly what she craved — the widest possible 
freedom to lead her own life without let or hin- 
drance from any one, combined with the least 
possible responsibility. As far as she could see, it 
would remove once and for all the single fretting 
annoyance that, so far, had disarranged all her 
plans. 

Monte’s argument was sound. Once she was 
married, the world of men would let her alone. So, 
too, would the world of women. She could face 
them both with a challenge to dispute her privi- 
leges. All this she would receive without any of 
the obligations with which most women pay so 
heavily for their release from the bondage in 
which they are held until married. For they pay 
even more when they love — pay the more, in a 
way, the more they love. It cannot be helped. 

She was thinking of the Warrens — the same 
Warrens Monte had visited when Chic, Junior had 
the whooping cough. She had been there when 
Chic, Junior was born. Marion had wanted her 
near — in the next room. She had learned then 
how they pay — these women who love. 

She had been there at other times — less dra- 
matic times. It was just the same. From the 
moment Marion awoke in the morning until she 
sank wearily into her bed at night, her time, her 
thought, her heart, her soul almost, was claimed 
by some one else. She gave, gave, until nothing 
was left for herself. 

Marjory, in her lesser way, had done much the 


86 


THE TRIFLERS 


same — so she knew the cost. It was rare when 
she had been able to leave her aunt for a whole day 
and night. Year after year, she too had awakened 
in the morning to her tasks for another — for this 
woman who had demanded them as her right. She 
too had given her time,} her thought, her soul, 
almost, to another. If she had not given her heart, 
it was perhaps because it was not asked; perhaps, 
again, it was because she had no heart to give. 

Sometimes, in that strange, emotionless exist- 
ence she had lived so long where duty took the 
place of love, she had wondered about that. If 
she had a heart, it never beat any faster to let her 
know she had it. 

She paid her debt of duty in full — paid until 
her release came. In the final two weeks of her 
aunt’s life she had never left her side. Patiently, 
steadfastly, she helped with all there was in her 
to fight that last fight. When it was over, she did 
not break down, as the doctors predicted. She 
went to bed and slept forty-eight hours, and 
awoke ten years younger. 

She awoke as one out of bondage, and stared 
with keen, eager eyes at a new world. For a few 
weeks she had twenty-four hours a day of her own. 
Then Peter had come^ and others had come, and 
finally Teddy had come. They wanted to take 
from her that which she had just gained — each 
in his own fashion. 

‘‘Give us of yourself,” they pleaded. “Begin 
again your sacrifices.” 


DRAWBACKS OF RECOVERY 87 

Peter put it best, even though he did not say 
much. But she had only to look in his eyes and 
read his proposal. 

“Come with me and stand by my side while I 
carve my career,” was what his eyes said. “I’ll 
love you and make you love me as Marion loves. 
You ’ll begin the day with me, and you’ll guard my 
home while I ’m gone until night, and you ’ll share 
my honors and my disappointments, and perhaps 
a time will come when Marion will stand in the 
next room, as once you stood in the next room. 
Then—” 

It was at this point she drew back. Then her 
soul would go out into the new-born soul, and after 
that she would only live and breathe and hope 
through that other. When Marion laughed and 
said that she was as she was because she did not 
know, Marion was wrong. It was because she did 
know — because she knew how madly and irrev- 
ocably she would give, if ever she gave again. 
There would be nothing left for herself at all. It 
would be as if she had died. 

She did not wish to give like that. She wished 
to live a little. She wished to be herself a little 
— herself as she now was. She wished to get 
back some of those years between seventeen and 
twenty-seven — taste the world as it was then. 

What Teddy offered was different. Something 
was there that even Peter did not have — some- 
thing that made her catch her breath once or 
twice when he sang to her like a white-robed 


88 


THE TRIFLERS 


choir-boy. It was as if he asked her to take his 
hand and jump with him into a white-hot flame. 
He carried her farther back in her passions than 
Peter did — back to seventeen, back to the primi- 
tive, elemental part of her. He really made her 
heart beat. But on guard within her stood the 
older woman, and she could not move. 

Now came Monte — asking nothing. He asked 
nothing because he wished to give nothing. She 
was under no illusion about that. There was not 
anything idealistic about Monte. This was to be 
purely an arrangement for their mutual comfort. 
They were to be companions on an indefinite tour 
of the world — each paying his own bills. 

At thirty-two he needed a comrade of some sort, 
and in his turn he offered himself as an escort. 
She found no apparent reason, then, even when 
she had spent half the night getting as far as this, 
why she should not immediately accept his pro- 
posal. Yet she still hesitated. 

It was not that she did not trust Monte. Not 
the slightest doubt in the world existed in her 
mind about that. She would trust him farther than 
she would even Peter — trust him farther than 
any man she had ever met. He was four-square, 
and she knew it. Perhaps it was a curious sug- 
gestion — it was just because of this that she 
hesitated. 

In a way, she was considering Monte. She did 
not like to help him give up responsibilities that 
might be good for him. She was somewhat dis- 


DRAWBACKS OF RECOVERY 89 

appointed that he was willing to give them up. 
He did not have the excuse she had — years of 
self-sacrifice. He had been free all his life to in- 
dulge himself, and he had done so. He had never 
known a care, never known a heartache. Having 
money, he had used it decently, so that he had 
avoided even the compensating curse that is sup- 
posed to come with money. 

She knew there was a lot to Monte. She had 
sensed that from the first. He had proved it in the 
last two weeks. It only needed some one to bring 
it out, and he would average high. Love might do 
it — the same white-hot love that had driven 
Teddy mad. 

But that was what he was avoiding, just as she 
was. Well, what of it? If one did not reach the 
heights, then one did not sound the depths. After 
all, it was not within her province to direct Monte’s 
life. She was selfish — she had warned him of that. 
He was selfish — and had warned her. 

Yet, as she lay there in her bed, she felt that she 
was about to give up something forever, and that 
Monte was about to give up something forever. It 
is one thing not to want something, and another 
to make an irrevocable decision never to have it. 
Also, it is one thing to fret one’s self into an un- 
necessary panic over a problem at night, and 
another to handle it lightly in the balmy sunshine 
of a Parisian springtime morning. 

Monte had risen early and gone out and bought 


THE TRIFLERS 


90 

her violets again. When she came in, he handed 
them to her, and she buried her face in their dewy 
fragrance. It was good to have some one think of 
just such little attentions. Then, too, his boyish 
enthusiasm swept her off her guard. He was so 
eager and light-hearted this morning that she 
found herself breaking into a laugh. She was still 
laughing when he brought back to her last night’s 
discussion. 

“Well, have you decided to marry me?” he 
demanded. 

She shook her head, her face still buried in the 
violets. 

“What’s worrying you about it?” he asked. 

“You, Monte,” she answered. 

“I? Well, that isn’t much. I looked up the 
time-tables, and we could take the six-ten to-night 
if you were ready.” 

“ I could n’t possibly be ready,” she replied 
decidedly. 

“To-morrow, then?” 

When he insisted upon being definite, the propo- 
sition sounded a great deal more absurd than 
when he allowed it to be indefinite. She was still 
hesitating when Marie appeared. 

“A telephone for mademoiselle,” she an- 
nounced. 

Monte heard her startled exclamation from the 
next room. He hurried to the door. She saw him, 
and, placing her hand over the telephone, turned 
excitedly. 


DRAWBACKS OF RECOVERY 91 

“It’s Teddy again,” she trembled. 

“Let me talk to him,” he commanded. 

“He says he does n’t believe in our — our en- 
gagement.” 

“We’re to be married to-morrow?” he asked 
quickly. 

“Oh!” 

“It’s the only way to get rid of him.” 

“Then—” 

“To-morrow?” 

Catching her breath, she nodded. 

He took the receiver. 

“This is Covington,” he said. “Miss Stockton 
and I are to be married to-morrow. Get that? . . . 
Well, keep hold of it, because the moment I ’m her 
husband — ” 

Following an oath at the other end, Monte 
heard the click of the receiver as it was snapped 
up. 

“That settles it very nicely,” he smiled. 


CHAPTER IX 

BLUE AND GOLD 

Marjory was to be married on June eighteenth, 
at eleven o’clock, in the chapel of the English 
Congregational Church. At ten o’clock of that 
day she was in her room before the mirror, trying 
to account for her heightened color. Marie had 
just left her in despair and bewilderment, after 
trying to make her look as bridelike as possible 
when she did not wish to look bridelike. Marie 
had wished to do her hair in some absurd new 
fashion for the occasion. 

“But, Marie,” she had explained, “nothing is 
to be changed. Therefore why should I change 
my appearance?” 

“Mademoiselle to be a bride — and nothing 
changed?” Marie had cried. 

“Nothing about me; nothing about Mr. Cov- 
ington. We are merely to be married, that is all — 
as a matter of convenience.” 

“Mademoiselle will see,” Marie had answered 
cryptically. 

“You will see yourself,” Marjory had laughed. 

Eh bien ! something was changed already, as she 
had only to look in the mirror to observe. There 
was a deep flush upon her cheeks and her eyes did 
not look quite natural. She saw, and seeing only 


BLUE AND GOLD 


93 

made it worse. Manifestly it was absurd of her to 
become excited now over a matter that up to this 
point she had been able to handle so reasonably. 
It vfas scarcely loyal to Monte. He had a right to 
expect her to be more sensible. 

He had put it well last night when he had re- 
marked that for her to go to a chapel to be mar- 
ried was no more serious than to go to an embassy 
for a passport. She was merely to share with him 
the freedom that was his as a birthright of his sex. 
In no other respect whatever was she to be under 
any obligations to him. With ample means of her 
own, he was simply giving her an opportunity to 
enjoy them unmolested — a privilege which the 
world denied her as long as she remained un- 
married. In no way was he to be responsible for 
her or to her. He understood this fully, and it was 
exactly what he himself desired. 

She, in return for this privilege, was to make 
herself as entertaining a traveling companion as 
possible. She was to be what she had been these 
last few weeks. 

Neither was making any sacrifice. That was 
precisely what they were avoiding. That was the 
beauty of the arrangement. Instead of multiply- 
ing cares and responsibilities, as ordinary folk did, 
— thereby defeating the very object for which 
they married, a fuller and wider freedom, — each 
was to do away with the few they already had as 
individuals. 

Therefore it seemed scarcely decent for Marie 


THE TRIFLERS 


94 

to speak of her as a bride. Perhaps that accounted 
for the color. No sentiment was involved here. 
This was what made the arrangement possible. 
Sentiment involved caring; and, as Monte had 
once said, “It’s the caring that seems to make the 
trouble.” That was the trouble with the Warrens. 
How she cared — from morning till night, with 
her whole heart and soul in a flutter — for Chic 
and the children. In a different way, Marjory 
supposed, Teddy cared. This was the one thing 
that made him so impossible. In another way, 
Peter Noyes cared. 

She gave a quick start as she thought of Peter 
Noyes. She turned away from the mirror as if — 
as if ashamed. She sprang to her feet, with an odd, 
tense expression about her mouth. It was as if she 
were looking into his dark, earnest eyes. Peter had 
always been so intensely in earnest about every- 
thing. In college he had worked himself thin to 
lead his class. In the law school he had graduated 
among the first five, though he came out almost 
half blind. His record, however, had won for him 
a place with a leading law Arm in New York, 
where in his earnest way he was already making 
himself felt. It was just this quality that had 
frightened her. He had made love to her with his 
lips set as if love were some great responsibility. 
He had talked of duty and the joy of sacrifice until 
she had run away from him. 

That had been her privilege. That had been her 
right. She had been under no obligation to him 


« 



WE ’RE TO BE MARRIED TO-MORROW ?»» 







BLUE AND GOLD 


95 

then; she was under no obligation to him now. 
Her life was hers, to do with as she saw fit. He 
had no business to intrude himself, at this of all 
times, upon her. 

Not daring to look in the mirror again, she called 
Marie to adjust her hat and veil. 

‘Ht is half past ten, Marie,” she announced 
nervously. “I — I think Monsieur Covington 
must be waiting for us.” 

“Yes, mademoiselle.” 

Her ears caught at the word. 

“Marie.” 

“Yes, mademoiselle.” 

“ I wish — even after this — to have you always 
address me as mademoiselle.” 

“But that—” 

“It is my wish.” 

It was a blue-and-gold morning, with the city 
looking as if it had received a scrubbing during the 
night. So too did Monte, who was waiting below 
for her. Clean-shaven and ruddy, in a dark-gray 
morning coat and top hat, he looked very hand- 
some, even with his crippled arm. And quite like 
a bridegroom! For a moment he made her wish 
she had taken Marie’s advice about her hair. She 
was in a brown traveling suit with a piquant hat 
that made her look quite Parisienne — though 
her low tan shoes, tied with big silk bows at her 
trim ankles, were distinctly American. 

Monte was smiling. 


THE TRIFLERS 


96 

“You are n’t afraid?” he asked. 

“Of what, Monte?” 

“ I don’t know. We’re on our way.” 

She took a long look at his steady blue eyes. 
They braced her like wine. 

“You must never let me be afraid,” she 
answered. 

“Then — en avant!” he called. 

In a way, it was a pity that they could not have 
been married out of doors. They should have gone 
into a garden for the ceremony instead of into the 
subdued light of the chapel. Then, too, it would 
have been much better had the Reverend Alex- 
ander Gordon been younger. He was a gentle, 
saintly-looking man of sixty, but serious — terri- 
bly serious. He had lived long in Paris, but in- 
stead of learning to be gay he had become like 
those sad-faced priests at Notre Dame. Perhaps 
if he had understood better the present circum- 
stances he would have entered into the occasion 
instead of remaining so very solemn. 

As Marjory shook hands with him she lost her 
bright color. Then, too, he had a voice that made 
her think again of Peter Noyes. In sudden terror 
she clung to Monte’s arm, and during the brief 
ceremony gave her responses in a whisper. 

Peter Noyes himself could not have made of 
this journey to the embassy a more trying ordeal. 
A ring was slipped upon the fourth finger of her 
left hand. A short prayer followed, and an earnest 
“God bless you, my children,” which left her feel- 


BLUE AND GOLD 


97 

ing suffocated. She thought Monte would never 
finish talking with him — would never get out 
into the sunshine again. When he did, she shrank 
away from the glare of the living day. 

Monte gave a sigh of relief. 

“That’s over, anyhow,” he said. 

Hearing a queer noise behind him, he turned. 
There stood Marie, sniffling and wiping her eyes. 

“Good Heavens,” he demanded, “what’s this?” 

Marjory instantly moved to the girl’s side. 

“There — there,” she soothed her gently; “it’s 
only the excitement, n’est ce pas?” 

“Yes, madame; and you know I wish you all 
happiness.” 

“And me also?” put in Monte. 

“ It goes without saying that monsieur will be 
happy.” 

He thrust some gold-pieces into her hand. 

“Then drink to our good health with your 
friends,” he suggested. 

Calling a taxicab, he assisted her in; but before 
the door closed Marjory leaned toward her and 
whispered in her ear:- — 

“You will come back to the hotel at six?” 

“Yes, madame.” 

So Marie went off to her cousins, looking in 
some ways more like a bride than her mistress. 

Marjory preferred to walk. She wanted to get 
back again to the mood of half an hour ago. She 
must in some way get Peter Noyes out of her 
mind. So quite aimlessly they moved down the 


THE TRIFLERS 


98 

Avenue Montaigne, and Monte waved his hand at 
the passing people. 

“Now,” he announced, “you are none of any- 
body’s business.” 

“Is that true, Monte?” Marjory asked eagerly. 

“True as preaching.” 

“And no one has any right to scold me?” 

“Not the slightest. If any one tries it, turn him 
over to me.” 

“That might not always be possible.” 

“You don’t mean to say any one has begun 
this soon?” 

He glared about as if to find the culprit. 

“Don’t look so fierce, Monte,” she protested, 
with a laugh. 

“Then don’t you look so worried,” he retorted. 

Already, by his side, she was beginning to re- 
cover. A Parisian dandy coming toward them 
stared rather overlong at her. An hour ago it 
would have made her uneasy; now she felt like 
making a face at him. 

She laughed a little. 

“The minister was terribly serious, was n’t he, 
Monte?” 

“Too darned serious,” he nodded. “But, you 
see, he did n’t know. I suppose the cross-your- 
throat, hope-to-die kind of marriage is serious. 
That’s the trouble with it.” 

“Yes; that’s the trouble with it.” 

“I can see Chic coming down the aisle now, 
with his face chalk-white and — ” 


BLUE AND GOLD 


99 


‘‘Don’t,” she broke in. 

He looked down at her — surprised that she 
herself was taking this so seriously. 

“My comrade,” he said, “what you need is 
to play a little.” 

“Yes,” she agreed eagerly. 

“Then where shall we go? The world is before 
you.” 

He was in exactly the mood to which she her- 
self had looked forward — a mood of springtime 
and irresponsibility. That was what he should 
be. It was her right to feel like that also. 

“Oh,” she exclaimed, “I’d like to go to all the 
places I could n’t go alone! Take me.” 

“To the Cafe de Paris for lunch?” 

She nodded. 

“To the races afterward and to the Riche for 
dinner?” 

“Yes, yes.” 

“So to the theater and to Maxim’s?” 

Her face was flushed as she nodded again. 

^“We’re off!” he exclaimed, taking her arm. 

It was an afternoon that left her no time to 
think. She was caught up by the gay, care-free 
crowd and swept around in a dizzy circle. Yet 
always Monte was by her side. She could take 
his arm if she became too confused, and that al- 
ways steadied her. 

Then she was whirled back to the hotel and 
to Marie, with no more time than was necessary 


lOO 


THE TRIFLERS 


to dress for dinner. She was glad there was no 
more time. For at least to-day there must be 
no unfilled intervals. She felt refreshed after her 
bath, and, to Marie’s delight, consented to at- 
tire herself in one of her newest evening gowns, 
a costume of silk and lace that revealed her neck 
and arms. Also she allowed Marie to do her hair 
as she pleased. That was a good sign, but Marie 
thought madame’s cheeks did not look like a 
good sign. 

‘‘I hope madame — ” 

‘‘Have you so soon forgotten what I asked 
of you?” Marjory interrupted. 

“I hope mademoiselle,” Marie corrected her- 
self, “has not caught a fever.” 

“I should hope not,” exclaimed Marjory. 
“What put that into your head?” 

“Mademoiselle’s cheeks are very hot.” 

Marjory brought her hand to her face. It did 
not feel hot, because her hands were equally hot. 

“It is nothing but the excitement that brings 
the color,” she informed Marie. “I have been 
living almost like a nun ; and now — to get out all 
at once takes away one’s breath. 

“Also being a bride.” 

“Marie!” 

“Eh bien, madame — mademoiselle was mar- 
ried only this morning.” 1 

“You do not seem to understand,” Marjory 
explained; “but it is necessary that you should 
understand. Monsieur Covington is to me only like 


BLUE AND GOLD 


lOI 


— like a big brother. It is in order that he might 
be with me as a big brother we went through the 
ceremony. People about here talk a great deal, and 
I have taken his name to prevent that. That is all 
And you are to remain with me and everything is 
to go on exactly as before, he in his apartments 
and we in ours. You understand now.^” 

At least, Marie heard. 

“ It is rather an amusing situation, is it not? ” 
demanded Marjory. 

‘‘I — I do not know,” replied Marie. 

‘‘Then in time you shall see. In the mean while, 
you might smile. Why do you not smile?” 

“I — I do not know,” Marie replied honestly. 

“You must learn how. It is necessary. It is 
necessary even to laugh. Monsieur Covington 
laughed a great deal this afternoon.” 

“He — he is a man,” observed Marie, as if that 
were some explanation. 

“Eh bien — is it men alone who have the 
privilege of laughing?” 

“I do not know,” answered Marie; “but I have 
noticed that men laugh a great deal more about 
some things than women.” 

“Then that is because women are fools,” 
affirmed Marjory petulantly. 

Though Marie was by no means convinced, she 
was ready to drop the matter in her admiration 
of the picture her mistress made when properly 
gowned. Whether she wished or not, madame, 
when she was done with her this evening, looked 


102 


THE TRIFLERS 


as a bride should look. And monsieur, waiting be- 
low, was worthy of her. 

In his evening clothes he looked at least a foot 
taller than usual. Marie saw his eyes warm as he 
slipped over madame’s beautiful white shoulders 
her evening wrap. 

Before madame left she turned and whispered 
in Marie’s ear. 

‘T may be late,” she said; “but you will be here 
when I return.” 

“Yes, mademoiselle.” 

“Without fail?” 

“Yes, mademoiselle.” 

Marie watched monsieur take his bride’s arm 
as they went out the door, and the thing she whis- 
pered to herself had nothing to do with madame 
at all. 

“Poor monsieur!” she said. 


CHAPTER X 

THE AFFAIR AT MAXIM’s 

It was all new to Marjory. In the year and a 
half she had lived in Paris with her aunt she 
had dined mostly in her room. Such cafes as this 
she had seen only occasionally from a cab on her 
way to the opera. As she stood at the entrance to 
the big room, which sparkled like a diamond be- 
neath a light, she was as dazed as a debutante 
entering her first ballroom. The head waiter, after 
one glance at Monte, was bent upon securing the 
best available table. Here was an American prince, 
if ever he had seen one. 

Had monsieur any choice.^ 

Decidedly. He desired a quiet table in a corner, 
not too near the music. 

Such a table was immediately secured, and as 
Covington crossed the room with Marjory by his 
side he was conscious of being more observed than 
ever he had been when entering the Riche alone. 
His bandaged arm lent him a touch of distinction, 
to be sure; but this served only to turn eyes back 
again to Marjory, as if seeking in her the cause for 
it. She moved like a princess, with her head well 
up and her dark eyes brilliant. 

“ All eyes are upon you,” he smiled, when he had 
given his order. 


104 


THE TRIFLERS 


“ If they are it’s very absurd,” she returned. 

Also, if they were, it did not matter. That was 
the fact she most appreciated. Ever since she had 
been old enough to observe that men had eyes, it 
had been her duty to avoid those eyes. That had 
been especially true in Paris, and still more es- 
pecially true in the few weeks she had been there 
alone. 

Now, with Monte opposite her, she was at lib- 
erty to meet men’s eyes and study them with in- 
terest. There was no danger. It was they who 
turned away from her — after a glance at Monte. 
It amused her to watch them turn away; it gave 
her a new sense of power. But of one thing she 
was certain : there was not a man in the lot with 
whom she would have felt comfortable to be here 
as she felt comfortable with Monte. 

Monte was having a very pleasant time of it. 
The thing that surprised him was the way Mar- 
jory quickened his zest in old things that had be- 
come stale. Here, for instance, she took him back 
to the days when he had responded with a piquant 
tingle to the lights and the music and the gay 
Parisian chatter, to the quick glance of smiling 
eyes where adventure lurked. He had been con- 
tent to observe without accepting the challenges, 
principally because he lived mostly in the sun- 
shine. To-night, in a clean, decent way, he felt 
again the old tingle. But this time it came from a 
different source. When Marjory raised her eyes to 
his, the lights blazed as brilliantly as if a hundred 


THE AFFAIR AT MAXIM’S 105 

new ones had been lighted ; the music mixed with 
his blood until his thoughts danced. 

With the coffee he lighted a cigarette and leaned 
back contentedly until it was time to go. 

As they went out of the room, he was aware 
that once again all eyes were turned toward her, 
so that he threw back his shoulders a little farther 
than usual and looked about with some scorn at 
those who had with them only ordinary women. 

The comedy at the Gymnase was sufficiently 
amusing to hold her attention, and that was the 
best she could ask for; but Monte watched it in- 
differently, resenting the fact that it did hold her 
attention. Besides, there were too many people 
all about her here. For two hours and a half it was 
as if she had gone back into the crowd. He was 
glad when the final curtain rang down and he 
was able to take her arm and guide her out. 

‘‘Maxim’s next?” he inquired. 

“Do you want to go?” she asked. 

“It’s for you to decide,” he answered. 

She was dead tired by now, but she did not dare 
to stop. 

“All right,” she said; “we’ll go.” 

It was a harlequin crowd at Maxim’s — a 
noisier, tenser, more hectic crowd than at the 
Riche. The room was gray with smoke, and every- 
where she looked were gold-tipped wine bottles. 
Though it was still early, there was much hyster- 
ical laughter and much tossing about of long 
streamers of colored paper and confetti. As they 


io6 


THE TRIFLERS 


entered she instinctively shrank away from it. 
Had the waiter delayed another second before 
leading them to a table, she would have gone 
out. 

Monte ordered the wine he was expected to 
order, but Marjory scarcely touched it to her lips, 
while he was content to watch it bubble in his 
glass. He did not like to have her here, and yet it 
was almost worth the visit to watch her eyes 
grow big, to watch her sensitive mouth express 
the disgust she felt for the mad crowd, to have her 
unconsciously hitch her chair nearer his. 

“The worst of it is,” he explained to her, “it’s 
the outsiders who are doing all this — Americans, 
most of them.” 

Suddenly, from behind them, a clear tenor voice 
made itself heard through the din. The first 
notes were indistinct; but in a few seconds the 
singer had the room to himself. Turning quickly, 
Marjory saw the slender figure of Hamilton, 
swaying slightly, standing by a table, his eyes 
leveled 'Upon hers. He was singing “The Rosary” 
— singing it as only he, when half mad, could 
sing it. 

She clutched Monte’s hand as he half rose from 
his seat. 

“Please,” she whispered, “it’s best to sit still.” 

Stronger and stronger the plaintive melody fell 
from his lips, until finally the orchestra itself 
joined. Women strained forward, and half-dazed 
men sat back and listened with bated breath. 


THE AFFAIR AT MAXIM’S 107 

Even Monte forgot for a moment the boldness 
that inspired Hamilton, and became conscious 
only of Marjory’s warm fingers within his. So, 
had the singer been any one else, he would have 
been content to sit to the end. But he knew the 
danger there. His only alternative, however, was 
to rise and press through the enraptured crowd, 
which certainly would have resented the interrup- 
tion. It seemed better to wait, and go out during 
the noisy applause that was sure to follow. 

At the second verse Hamilton, still singing, 
came nearer. A path opened before him, as before 
an inspired prophet. It was only Monte who 
moved his chair slightly and made ready. Still 
there was nothing he could do until the man com- 
mitted some overt act. When Hamilton concluded 
his song, he was less than two feet away. By then 
Monte was on his feet. As the applause swept 
from every corner of the room, Hamilton seized 
from a near-by table a glass of wine, and, raising 
it, shouted a toast : — 

“To the bride.” 

The crowd followed his eyes to the shrinking 
girl behind Monte. In good humor they rose, to a 
man, and joined in, draining their glasses. It was ^ 
Monte’s opportunity. Taking Marjory’s arm, he 
started for the door. 

But Hamilton was madder than he had ever 
been. He ran forward, laughing hysterically. 

“ Kiss the bride,” he called. 

This he actually attempted. Monte had only 


io8 


THE TRIFLERS 


his left arm, and it was not his strongest; but back 
of it he felt a new power. He took Hamilton be- 
neath the chin, and with a lurch the man fell 
sprawling over a table among the glasses. In the 
screaming confusion that followed, Monte fought 
his way to the door, using his shoulders and a 
straight arm to clear a path. In another second he 
had lifted Marjory into a cab. 

Leaning forward, she clutched his arm as the 
cab jumped ahead. 

I ’m sorry I had to make a scene,” he apolo- 
gized. ‘‘I shouldn’t have hit him, but — I saw 
red for a second.” 

She would never forget that picture of Monte 
standing by her side, his head erect, his arm 
drawn back for the second blow which had proved 
unnecessary. All the other faces surrounding her 
had faded into a smoky background. She had 
been conscious of him alone, and of his great 
strength. She had felt that moment as if his 
strength had literally been hers also. She could 
have struck out, had it been necessary. 

‘‘You did n’t hurt your shoulder, did you?” she 
asked anxiously. 

He did not know — it did not much matter. 
Had Hamilton actually succeeded in reaching her 
lips, he would have torn his wounded arm from the 
bandages and struck with that too. He had never 
realized until then what sacred things her lips 
were. He had known them only as beautiful. 
They were beautiful now as he looked down at 


THE AFFAIR AT MAXIM’S 109 

them. Slightly parted, they held his eyes with a 
strange, new fascination. They were alive, those 
lips. They were warm and pulsating. He found 
himself breathing faster because of them. He 
seemed, against his will, to be bending toward 
them. Then, with a wrench, he tore himself free 
from the spell, not daring to look at her again. 

Leaving her to Marie at the door of her room, 
Monte went into his own apartment. He threw 
open a window, and stood there in the dark with 
the cool night breeze blowing in upon him. After 
Maxim’s, the more clean air the better; after what 
had followed in the cab, the more cool air the 
better. 

He was still confused by it; still frightened by it. 
For a moment he had felt himself caught in the 
clutch of some power over which he had no con- 
trol. That was the startling truth that stood out 
most prominently. He had been like one intoxi- 
cated — he who never before in his life had lost a 
grip upon himself. That fact struck at the very 
heart of his whole philosophy of life. Always 
normal — that had been his boast; never losing 
his head over this thing or that. It was the only 
way a man could keep from worrying. It was the 
only way a man could keep sane. The moment 
you wanted anything like the devil, then the devil 
was to pay. This evening he had proved that. 

He went back to the affair at Maxim’s. He 
should have known better than to take her there, 
anyway. She did not belong in such a place. She 


no 


THE TRIFLERS 


did not belong anywhere he had taken her to- 
day. To-morrow — but all this was beside the 
point. 

The question that he would most like to answer 
at this moment was whether this last wild episode 
of Hamilton’s was due to absinthe or to that same 
weird passion which a few weeks before had led 
the man to shoot. It had been beastly of Hamilton 
to try to reach her lips. That, doubtless, was the 
absinthe. It robbed him of his senses. But the 
look in the man’s eyes when he sang, the awful 
hunger that burned in them when he gave his mad 
toast — those things seemed to spring from a 
different source. The man, in a room full of 
strangers, had seen only her, had sung only to her. 
Monte doubted if the crazed fellow saw even him. 
He saw no one but this one woman. That was 
madness — but it did not come of absinthe. The 
absinthe may have caused the final utter break- 
down of Hamilton’s self-control here and at 
Madame Courcy’s — but that the desire could be 
there without it Monte had twice proved to him- 
self that evening. 

Once was when he had struck Hamilton. He 
alone knew that when he hit that time it was with 
the lust to kill — even as Hamilton had shot to 
kill. The feeling lasted only the fraction of a sec- 
ond — merely while his fist was plunging toward 
Hamilton’s chin. But, however brief, it had 
sprung from within him — a blood-red, frenzied 
desire to beat down the other man. At the mo- 


THE AFFAIR AT MAXIM’S in 


merit he was not so much conscious of trying to 
protect her as to rid himself of Hamilton. 

The second mad moment had come in the cab, 
when he had looked down at her lips. As the 
passion to kill left him, another equally strong 
passion had taken its place. He had hungered for 
her lips — the very lips Hamilton, a moment be- 
fore, had attempted to violate. He who all his life 
had looked as indifferently upon living lips as upon 
sculptured lips had suddenly found himself in the 
clutch of a mighty desire. For a second he had 
swayed under the temptation. He had been ready 
to risk everything, because for a heart-beat or two 
nothing else seemed to matter. In his madness, 
he had even dared think that delicate, sensitive 
mouth trembled a like desire. 

Even here in the dark, alone, something of the 
same desire returned. He began to pace the room. 

How she would have hated him had he yielded 
to that impulse ! He shuddered as he pictured the 
look of horror that would have leaped into her 
dark eyes. Then she would have shrunk away 
frightened, and her eyes would have grown cold — 
those eyes that had only so lately warmed at all. 
Her face would have turned to marble — the face 
that only so lately had relaxed. 

She trusted him — trusted him to the extent of 
being willing to marry him to save herself from the 
very danger with which he had threatened her. 
Except that at the last moment he had resisted, 
he was no better than Hamilton. 


II2 


THE TRIFLERS 


In her despair she had cried, ‘‘Why won’t they 
let me alone?” And he had urged her to come 
with him, so that she might be let alone. He was 
to be merely her camarade de voyage — her big 
brother. Then, in less than twelve hours, he had 
become like the others. He felt unfit to remain in 
the next room to her — unfit to greet her in 
the morning. In an agony of remorse, he clenched 
his fists. 

He drew himself up shortly. A new question 
leaped to his brain. Was this, then, love? The 
thought brought both solace and fresh terror. It 
gave him at least some justification for his mo- 
ment of temptation; but it also brought vividly 
before him countless new dangers. If this were 
love, then he must face day after day of this sort 
of thing. Then he would be at the mercy of a 
passion that must inevitably lead him either to 
Hamilton’s plight or to Chic Warren’s equally un- 
enviable position. Each man, in his own way, 
paid the cost: Hamilton, mad at Maxim’s; Chic 
pacing the floor, with beaded brow, at night. 
With these two examples before him, surely he 
should have learned his lesson. Against them he 
could place his own normal life — ten years of it 
without a single hour such as these hours through 
which he was now living. 

That was because he had kept steady. Ambi- 
tion, love, drunkenness, gluttony — these were all 
excesses. His own father had desired mightily to 
be governor of a State, and it had killed him; his 


THE AFFAIR AT MAXIMUS 113 

grandfather had died amassing the Covington 
fortune; he had friends who had died of love, and 
others who had overdrunk and overeaten. The 
secret of happiness was not to want anything you 
did not have. If you went beyond that, you paid 
the cost in new sacrifices, leading again to sacri- 
fices growing out of those. 

Monte lighted a cigarette and inhaled a deep 
puff. The thing for him to do was fairly clear : to 
pack his bag and leave while he still retained 
the use of his reasoning faculties. He had been 
swept off his feet for an instant, that was all. 
Let him go on with his schedule for a month, and 
he would recover his balance. 

The suggestion was considerably simplified by 
the fact that it was not necessary to consider 
Marjory in any way. He would be in no sense 
deserting her, because she was in no way depend- 
ent upon him. She had ample funds of her own, 
and Marie for company. He had not married her 
because of any need she had for him along those 
lines. The protection of his name she would still 
have. As Mrs. Covington she could travel as 
safely without him as with him. Even Hamilton 
was eliminated. He had received his lesson. Any- 
way, she would probably leave Paris at once for 
Etois, and so be out of reach of Hamilton. 

Monte wondered if she would miss him. Per- 
haps, for a day or so; but, after all, she would 
have without him the same wider freedom she 
craved. She would have all the advantages of a 


THE TRIFLERS 


1 14 

widow without the necessity of admitting that 
her husband was dead. He would always be in 
the background — an invisible guard. It was odd 
that neither she nor he had considered that as 
an attractive possibility. It was decidedly more 
practical than the present arrangement. 

As for himself, he was ready to admit frankly 
that after to-day golf on an English course would 
for a time be a bore. From the first sight of her 
this morning until now, he had not had a dull mo- 
ment. She had taken him back to the days when 
his emotions had been quick to respond to each 
day as a new adventure in life. 

It was last winter in Davos that he had first be- 
gun to note the keen edge of pleasure becoming 
the least bit dulled. He had followed the routine 
of his amusements almost mechanically. He had 
been conscious of a younger element there who 
seemed to crowd in just ahead of him. Some of 
them were young ladies he remembered having 
seen with pig-tails. They smiled saucily at him — 
with a confidence that suggested he was no longer 
to be greatly feared. He could remember when 
they blushed shyly if he as much as glanced in 
their direction. His schedule had become a little 
too much of a schedule. It suggested the annual 
tour of the middle-aged gentlemen who follow the 
spas and drink of the waters. 

He felt all those things now even more keenly 
than he had at the time. Looking back at them, 
he gained a new perspective that emphasized each 


THE AFFAIR AT MAXIM’S 115 

disagreeable detail. But he had only to think of 
Marjory as there with him and — presto, they 
vanished. Had she been with him at Davos. — 
better still, were she able to go to Davos with him 
next winter — he knew with what joy she would 
sit in front of him on the bob-sled and take the 
breathless dip of the Long Run. He knew how she 
would meet him in the morning with her cheeks 
stung into a deep red by the clean cold of the 
mountain air. She would climb the heights with 
him, laughing. She would skate with him and 
ski with him, and there would be no one younger 
than they. 

Monte again began to pace his room. She must 
go to Davos with him next winter. He must take 
her around the whole schedule with him. She must 
go to England and golf with him, and from there 
to his camp. She would love it there. He could 
picture her in the woods, on the lake, and before 
the camp-fire, beneath the stars. 

From there they would go on to Cambridge for 
the football season. She would like that. As a 
girl she had been cheated of all the big games, 
and he would make up for it. So they would go on 
to New York for the holidays. He had had rather 
a stupid time of it last year. He had gone down 
to Chic’s for Christmas, but had been oppressed 
by an uncomfortable feeling that he did not be- 
long there. Mrs. Chic had been busy with so 
many presents for others that he had felt like old 
Scrooge. He had made his usual gifts to relatives, 


ii6 


THE TRIFLERS 


but only as a matter of habit. With Marjory with 
him, he would be glad to go shopping as Chic and 
Mrs. Chic did. He might even go on to Philadel- 
phia with her and look up some of the relatives 
he had lately been avoiding. 

Where in thunder had his thoughts taken him 
again? He put his head in his hands. He had 
carried her around his whole schedule with him 
just as if this were some honest-to-God marriage. 
He had done this while she lay in the next room 
peacefully sleeping in perfect trust. 

She must never know this danger, nor be 
further subjected to it. There was only one safe 
way — to take the early train for Calais without 
even seeing her again. 

Monte sat down at the writing-desk and seized 
a pen. 

Dear Marjory [he began]: Something has come 
up unexpectedly that makes it necessary for me to 
take an early train for England. I can’t tell how 
long I shall be gone, but that of cpurse is not im- 
portant. I hope you will go on to Etois, as we had 
planned; or, at any rate, leave Paris. Somehow, I 
feel that you belong out under the blue sky and not 
in town. 

He paused a moment and read over that last 
sentence. Then he scratched it out. Then he tore 
up the whole letter. 

What he had to say should be not written. He 
must meet her in the morning and tell her like 
a man. 


CHAPTER XI 

A CANCELED RESERVATION 

Though it was late when he retired, Monte 
found himself wide awake at half past seven. 
Springing from bed, he took his cold tub, shaved, 
and after dressing proceeded to pack his bags. The 
process was simple; he called the hotel valet, gave 
the order to have them ready as soon as possible, 
and went below. From the office he telephoned 
upstairs to Marie, and learned that madame 
would meet him in the breakfast-room at nine. 
This left him a half-hour in which to pay his bill 
at the hotel, order a reservation on the express to 
Calais, and buy a large bunch of fresh violets, 
which he had placed on the breakfast table — a 
little table in a sunshiny corner. 

Monte was calmer this morning than he had 
been the night before. He was rested; the interval 
of eight hours that had passed since he last saw 
her gave him, however slight, a certain perspec- 
tive, while his normal surroundings, seen in broad 
daylight, tended to steady him further. The 
hotel clerk, busy about his uninspired duties; the 
impassive waiters in black and white; the solid- 
looking Englishmen and their wives who began to 
make their appearance, lent a sense of unreality to 
the events of yesterday. 


ii8 


THE TRIFLERS 


Yet, even so, his thoughts clung tenaciously to 
the necessity of his departure. In a way, the very 
normality of this morning world emphasized that 
necessity. He recalled that it was to just such a 
day as this he had awakened, yesterday. The 
hotel clerk had been standing exactly where he 
was now, sorting the morning mail, stopping every 
now and then with a troubled frown to make out 
an indistinct address. The corpulent porter in his 
blue blouse stood exactly where he was now 
standing, jealously guarding the door. Vehicles 
had been passing this way and that on the street 
outside. He had heard the same undertone of 
leisurely moving life — the scuffling of feet, the 
closing of doors, distant voices, the rumble of 
trafflc. Then, after this lazy prelude, he had been 
swept on and on to the final dizzy climax. 

That must not happen again. At this moment 
he l:new he had a firm grip on himself — but at 
this moment yesterday he had felt even more se- 
cure. There had been no past then. That seemed 
a big'^word to use for such recent events covering 
so few hours; and yet it was none too big. It 
covered nothing less than the revelation of a man 
to himself. If that process sometimes takes years, 
it is none the less significant if it takes place in 
a day. 

“Good-morning, Monte.’' 

He turned quickly — so quickly that she 
started in surprise. 

“Is anything the matter?” she asked. 


A CANCELED RESERVATION 119 

She was in blue this morning, and wore at an 
angle a broad-brimmed hat trimmed with black 
and white. He thought her eyes looked a trifle 
tired. He would have said she had not slept well. 

“I — I did n’t know you were down,” he 
faltered. 

The interval of six hours upon which he had 
been depending vanished instantly. To-day was 
but the continuation of yesterday. As he moved 
toward the breakfast-room at her side, the out- 
side world disappeared as by magic, leaving only 
her world — the world immediately about her,, 
which she dominated. This room which she en- 
tered by his side was no longer merely the salle- 
a-manger of the Normandie. He was conscious 
of no portion of it other than that which included 
their table. All the sunshine in the world con- 
centrated into the rays that fell about her. ^ 

He felt this, and yet at the same time he \/.i3 
aware of the absurdity of such exaggeration. It 
was the sort of thing that annoyed him when he 
saw it in others. All those newly married couples 
he used to meet on the German liners were afflicted 
in this same way. Each one of them acted as if the 
ship were their ship, the ocean their ocean, even 
the blue sky and the stars at night their sky and 
their stars. When he was in a good humor, he 
used to laugh at this; when in a bad humor, it 
disgusted him. 

‘‘Monte,” she said, as soon as they were seated, 
“I was depending upon you this morning.” 


120 


THE TRIFLERS 


She studied him a second, and then tried to 
smile, adding quickly: — 

don’t like you to disappoint me like this.” 

“What do you mean?” he asked nervously. 

She frowned, but it was at herself, not at him. 
It did not do much except make dimples between 
her brows. 

“I lay awake a good deal last night — think- 
ing,” she answered. 

“Good Lord!” he exclaimed. “You ought n’t to 
have done that!” 

“ It was n’t wise,” she admitted. “But I looked 
forward to the daylight — and you — to bring me 
back to normal.” 

“Well, here we are,” he hastened to assure her. 
“ I had the sun up ready for you several hours ago.” 

“You — you look so serious.” 

She leaned forward. 

“Monte,” she pleaded, “you must n’t go back 
on me like that — now. I suppose women can’t 
help getting the fidgets once in a while and think- 
ing all sorts of things. I was tired. I’m not used 
to being so very gay. And I let myself go a little, 
because I thought in the morning I ’d find you the 
same old Monte. I ’ve known you so long, and you 
always have been the same.” 

“It was a pretty exciting day for both of us,” 
he tried to explain. 

“How for you?” 

“Well, to start with, one does n’t get married 
every morning.” 


A CANCELED RESERVATION 121 

He saw her cheeks flush. Then she drew back. 

“I think we ought to forget that as much as 
possible,” she told him. 

Here was his opportunity. The way to forget — 
the only way — was for him to continue with his 
interrupted schedule to England, and for her to 
go on alone to Etois. It was not too late for that 
— if he started at once. Surely it ought to be the 
matter of only a few weeks to undo a single day. 
Let him get the tang of the salt air, let him go to 
bed every night dog-tired physically, let him get 
out of sight of her eyes and lips, and that some- 
thing — intangible as a perfume — that emanated 
from her, and doubtless he would be laughing at 
himself as heartily as he had laughed at others. 

But he could not frame the words. His lips re- 
fused to move. Not only that, but, facing her here, 
it seemed a grossly brutal thing to do. She looked 
so gentle and fragile this morning as, picking up 
the violets, she half hid her face in them. 

“You mean we ought to go back to the day 
before yesterday?” he asked. 

“In our thoughts,” she answered. 

“And forget that we are — ” 

She nodded quickly, not allowing him to finish. 

“Because,” she explained, “I think it must be 
that which is making you serious. I don’t know 
you that way. It is n’t you. I ’ve seen you all 
these years, wandering around wherever your 
fancy took you — care-free and smiling. I ’ve 
always envied you, and now — I thought you 


122 


THE TRIFLERS 


were just going to keep right on, only taking me 
with you. Is n’t that what we planned?” 

‘‘Yes,” he nodded. “We started yesterday.” 

“I shall never forget that part of yesterday,” 
she said. 

“It was n’t so bad, except for Hamilton.” 

“It was n’t so bad even with Hamilton,” she 
corrected. “ I don’t think I can ever be afraid of 
him again.” 

“Then it was n’t he that bothered you last 
night?” he asked quickly. 

“No,” she answered. 

“It — it was n’t I?” 

She laughed uneasily. 

“No, Monte; because you were just yourself 
yesterday.” 

He wondered about that. He wondered, if he 
placed before her all the facts, including the hours 
after he left her, if she would have said that. Here 
was his second opportunity to tell her what he had 
planned. If he did not intend to go on, he should 
speak now. To-morrow it would be too late. By 
noon it would be too late. By the time they 
finished their breakfast, it would be too late. 

He met her eyes. They were steady as planets. 
They were honest and clear and clean and confi- 
dent. They trusted him, and he knew it. He took 
a deep breath and leaned forward. Impulsively 
she leaned across the table and placed her hand 
upon his. 

“Dear old Monte,” she breathed. 


A CANCELED RESERVATION 123 

It was too late — now ! He saw her in a sort of 
mist of dancing golden motes. He felt the steady 
throb of her pulse. 

She withdrew her hand as quickly as she had 
given it. It was as if she did not dare allow it to 
remain there. It was that which made him smile 
with a certain confidence of his own. 

“What we’d better do,” he said, “is to get out 
of Paris. I’m afraid the pace here is too hot for 
us.” 

“To Etois?” she asked. 

“That’s as good a place as any. Could you 
start this afternoon?” 

“If you wish.” 

“The idea is to move on as soon as you begin ta 
think,” he explained, with his old-time lightness. 
“Of course, the best way is to walk. If you can’t 
walk — why, the next best thing — •” 

He paused a moment to consider a new idea.. 
It was odd that it had never occurred to him 
before. 

“I have it!” he continued. “We’ll go to Etois 
by motor. It’s a beautiful drive down there. I 
made the trip alone three years ago in a car I 
owned. We’ll take our time, putting up at the 
little villages along the way. We’ll let the sua 
soak into us. We’ll get away from people. It’s 
people who make you worry. I have a notion it 
will be good for us both. This Hamilton episode 
has left us a bit morbid. What we need is some- 
thing to bring us back to normal.” 


124 


THE TRIFLERS 


‘‘I’d love it,” she fell in eagerly. “We’ll just 
play gypsy.” 

“Right. Now, what you want to do is to throw 
into a dress-suitcase a few things, and we’ll ship 
the trunks by rail to Nice. All you need is a tooth- 
brush, a change of socks, and — ” 

“There ’s Marie,” she interrupted. 

“Can’t we ship her by rail too?” 

“No, Monte,” she answered, with a decided 
shake of her head. 

“But, hang it all, people don’t go a-gypsying 
with French maids!” 

“Why not?” she demanded. 

She asked the question quite honestly. He had 
forgotten Marie utterly until this moment, and she 
seemed to join the party like an mtruder. Always 
she would be upon the back seat. 

“Would n’t you feel freer without her?” he 
asked. 

“I should n’t feel at all proper,” she declared. 

“Then we might just as well not have been 
married.” 

“Only,” she laughed, “if we had n’t taken that 
precaution it would n’t have been proper for me to 
go, even with Marie.” 

“I’m glad we’ve accomplished something, any- 
how,” he answered good-naturedly. 

“We’ve accomplished a great deal,” she as- 
sured him. “Yesterday morning I could n’t — at 
this time — have done even the proper things and 
felt proper. Oh, you don’t know how people look 


A CANCELED RESERVATION 125 

at you, and how that look makes you feel, even 
when you know better. I could n’t have sat here 
at breakfast with you and felt comfortable. Now 
we can sit here and plan a wonderful trip like this. 
It’s all because you’re just Monte.” 

“And you just you!” 

“Only I don’t count for anything. It makes me 
feel even more selfish than I am.” 

“Don’t count?” he exclaimed. “Why — ” 

He stifled the words that sprang to his lips. It 
was only because she thought she did not count 
that she was able to feel comfortable. Once let her 
know that she counted as at that moment she did 
count to him, and even what little happiness he 
was able to bring her would vanish. He would be 
to her then merely one of the others — even as he 
was to himself. 

He rose abruptly. 

“I must see about getting a machine,” he said. 
“I want to start this afternoon if possible.” 

“I’ll be ready,” she agreed. 

As they went out to the office, the clerk stepped 
up to him. 

“ I have secured the reservation, monsieur,” he 
announced. 

“Please cancel it,” replied Monte. 

“Reservation?” inquired Marjory. 

“On the Calais express — for a friend of mine 
who has decided not to go,” he answered. 


CHAPTER XII 

A WEDDING JOURNEY 

Monte made an extravagant purchase: a new 
high-powered touring car capacious enough for a 
whole family — his idea being, that the roomier 
the car, the less Marie would show up in it. On 
the other hand, if he cared to consider her in that 
way, Marie would be there as much for his pro- 
tection as Marjory’s. The task that lay ahead of 
him this next week was well defined ; it was to get 
back to normal. He had diagnosed his disease — 
now he must cure it. It would have been much 
easier to have done this by himself, but this was 
impossible. He must learn to gaze steadily into 
her eyes, while gazing into them; he must learn to 
look indifferently upon her lips, with her within 
arm’s reach of him. Here was a man’s job. 

He was not even to have the machine to occupy 
his attention; for there was no time to secure a 
license, and so he must take with him a chauffeur. 
He was fortunate in being able to secure one on 
the spot — Louis Santerre, a good-looking lad with 
the best of recommendations. He ordered him 
to be at the hotel at three. 

Thus, in less than an hour from the time he 
entered the salesroom, Monte had bought and 
paid for his car, hired his man, given orders for 


A WEDDING JOURNEY 127 

certain accessories, and left, with Monsieur Man- 
sart bowing him out and heartily wishing that all 
his customers were of this type. 

There were, however, several little things that 
Monte still wished to purchase — an automobile 
coat and cap, for one thing; also some rugs. These 
he found in a near-by store. It was as he was leav- 
ing that the clerk — who, it seems, must have had 
an eye — noticed the shiny new gold ring upon 
Monte’s left hand. 

“Madame is well supplied?” he inquired. 

“Madame? Who the devil is madame?” de- 
manded Monte. 

“Pardon, monsieur,” replied the clerk in some 
confusion, fearing he had made a grave mistake. 
“I did not know monsieur was traveling alone.” 

Then it was Monte’s turn to show signs of con- 
fusion. It was quite true he was not traveling 
alone. It was the truest thing he knew just then. 

“What is necessary for a lady traveling by 
motor?” he inquired. 

The clerk would take great pleasure in showing 
him in a department devoted to that very end. It 
was after one bewildering glance about the count- 
ers that he became of the opinion that his question 
should have been: “What is it that a lady does 
not wear when traveling by motor?” He saw 
coats and bonnets and goggles and vanity boxes 
and gloves, to mention only a few of those things 
he took in at first glance. 

“We are leaving in some haste,” explained 


128 


THE TRIFLERS 


Monte, “so Pm afraid she has none of these 
things. Would n’t the easiest way be for you to 
give me one of each?” 

That indeed would be a pleasure. Did monsieur 
know the correct size ? 

Only in a general way — madame was not quite 
his height and weighed in the neighborhood of one 
hundred and fifty pounds. That was enough to go 
upon for outside garments. Still there remained 
a wide choice of style and color. In this Monte 
pleased himself, pointing his stick with sure judg- 
ment at what took his fancy, as this and the 
other thing was placed before him. It was a de- 
cidedly novel and a very pleasant occupation. 

In this way he spent the best part of another 
hour, and made a payment in American Express 
orders of a considerable sum. That, however, in- 
volved nothing but tearing from the book he 
always carried as many orders for twenty-five 
dollars as most nearly approximated the sum 
total. The articles were to be delivered within one 
hour to “Madame M. Covington, Hotel Nor- 
mandie.” 

Monte left the store with a sense of satisfaction, 
tempered a trifle by an uncomfortable doubt as to 
just how this presumption on his part would be 
received. However, he was well within his rights. 
He held sturdily to that. 

With still two hours before he could return, — 
for he must leave her free until luncheon, — he 
went on to the Champs Elysees and so to the Bois. 


A WEDDING JOURNEY 129 

He still dwelt with pleasure upon the opportunity 
that had been offered him to buy those few things 
for her. It sent him along briskly with a smile on 
his face. It did more; it suggested a new idea. 
The reason he had been taking himself so seriously 
was that he had been thinking too much about 
himself and not enough about her. The simple 
way out of that difficulty was from now on not to 
consider himself at all. After all, what happened 
to him did not much matter, as long as it did not 
affect her. His job from now on was to make her 
happy. 

For the rest of his walk he kept tight hold of 
that idea, and came back to the hotel with a firm 
grip on it. He called to her through the door of 
her room : — 

“How you making it?’’ 

“Pretty well,” came her voice. “Only I went 
shopping and bought all my things — including a 
coat for you. Then, when I return, I find a whole 
boxful from you.” 

“All my efforts wasted!” he exclaimed. 

“No, Monte,” she replied quickly. “I could n’t 
allow that, because — well, because it was so 
thoughtful of you. So I kept the coat and bonnet 
you selected — and a few other things. I’ve just 
sent Marie out to return the rest.” 

She had kept the coat and bonnet that he 
selected! What in thunder was there about that 
to make a man feel so confoundedly well satisfied? 


THE TRIFLERS 


130 

They left the hotel at three, and rode that day 
as far as a country inn which took their fancy just 
before coming into Joigny. It was, to Marjory, a 
wonderful ride — a ride that made her feel that 
with each succeeding mile she was leaving farther 
and farther behind her every care she had ever had 
in the world. It was a ride straight into the heart 
of a green country basking sleepily beneath blue 
skies; of contented people going about their pleas- 
ant tasks; of snug, fat farms and snug little houses, 
with glimpses of an occasional chateau in the 
background. 

When Monte held out his hand to assist her 
down, she laughed light-heartedly, refreshed in 
body and soul. For Monte had been himself ever 
since they started — better than himself. He had 
humored her every mood, allowing her to talk 
when she had felt like talking, or to sit back with 
her eyes half closed when she wished to give her- 
self up to lazy content. Often, too, he had made 
her laugh with his absurd remarks — laugh 
spontaneously, as a child laughs. She had never 
seen him in such good humor, and could not re- 
member when she herself had been in such good 
humor. 

The rays of the sun were falling aslant as she 
stepped out, and the western sky was aglow with 
crimson and purple and pink. It was a drowsy 
world, with sounds grown distant and the per- 
fume and color of the flowers grown nearer. At 
the door of the inn, which looked as if it must have 


A WEDDING JOURNEY 131 

been standing right there in the days of dashing 
cavaliers, the proprietor and his wife were obse- 
quiously bowing a welcome. It was not often that 
the big machines deigned to rest here. 

Monte stepped toward them. 

“Madame desires to rest here for the night, if 
accommodations may be secured,” he said. 

For the night? Mon Dieu ! The proprietor had 
reckoned upon only a temporary sojourn — for a 
bottle of wine, perhaps. He had never entertained 
such a host as this. How many rooms would be 
required ? 

“Four,” answered Monte. 

“Let me see; monsieur and madame could be 
put in the front room.” 

Monte shook his head. 

“Madame will occupy the front room alone,” 
he informed him. 

“Eh? Oh, I understand; a sister. That was a 
curious mistake. Eh bien, madame in the front 
room. Monsieur in the room to the right. The 
maid in the room on the back. But there is the 
chauffeur.” 

There was no room left for him, or for the 
machine either. 

“Then he can go on to Joigny,” announced 
Monte. 

So Louis went on, and in less than five minutes 
the others were safely sorted out and tucked away 
in their respective rooms. 

“We ought to get out and see the sun set,” 


THE TRIFLERS 


132 

Monte called to Marjory as she waved him an 
adieu at her door. 

“I’ll be down in ten minutes,” she nodded. 

There is a princess latent in every woman. 
She makes her appearance early, and too often 
vanishes early. Not many women have the good 
fortune to see her — except perhaps for a few brief 
moments — after seventeen. But, however, far 
in the background, she remains as at least a ro- 
mantic possibility as long as any trace of romance 
itself remains. She is a languid, luxury-loving 
creature, this princess; an Arabian Nights princess 
of silks and satins and perfumed surroundings. 
Through half-closed eyes she looks out upon a 
world of sunshine and flowers, untroubled as the 
fairy folk. Every one does her homage, and she in 
her turn smiles graciously, and there is nought 
else for her to do except to rest and be amused. 

For a moment, here in the twilight, this princess 
returned to Marjory. As she sat before the mirror, 
doing over her hair, she held her chin a little 
higher at the thought and smiled at herself con- 
tentedly. She used to do just this — and feel 
ashamed of herself afterward — long, long ago, 
after she first met Monte at the Warrens’. For it 
was he who then had been her gallant knight, 
without which no one may be a fairy-book 
princess. He had just finished his college course, 
and eager-eyed was about to travel over the 
wide world. He was big and buoyant and hand- 


A WEDDING JOURNEY 133 

some, and even more irresponsible then than 
now. 

She recalled how one evening they sat alone 
upon the porch of the Warren house until late, and 
he had told her of his proposed journey. She had 
listened breathlessly, with her chin in her hands 
and her eyes big. When she came in, Mrs. Warren 
had placed an arm about her and looked signifi- 
cantly at her flushed cheeks and said gently : — 

“Be careful, my dear. Don’t you let that care- 
less young prince take away your heart with him. 
Remember, he has not yet seen the world.” 

He had sailed away for a year and a day soon 
after this ; and, perhaps because he was safely out 
of her life, she had allowed herself more liberty 
with him than otherwise she would have done. 
At any rate, that year she was a princess and he 
her prince. 

Now, to-night, he came back for a little. It 
was the twilight, which deals gently with harsh 
realities, and the perfume of the flowers floating 
in at the open window, and the old room, doubt- 
less. Only yesterday he called her “Your High- 
ness,” and she had not responded. There in the 
Cafe Riche none of her old dreams had returned. 
Perhaps it was because all her surroundings there 
had been too grossly real. That was no setting for 
a fairy prince, and a fairy prince was, of course, all 
he had ever been or was now. He was only for the 
world when the sun was low. 

‘y Outside her window she heard a voice: — 


134 


THE TRIFLERS 


“Oh, Marjory.” 

She started. It was her prince calling. It was 
bewildering to have dreams suddenly blended 
with life itself. It was bewildering also to have the 
thoughts of seventeen suddenly blended with the 
realities of twenty-seven. She remained silent, 
breathing gently, as if afraid of being discovered. 

“Marjory,” he called again. 

“Coming,” she answered, with a quiet intake of 
breath. 

Hatless and with a silk shawl over her shoulders, 
she hurried to where he was waiting. He too was 
hatless, even as he had been that night long ago 
when he had sat beside her. Something, too, of the 
same light of youth was in his eyes now as then. 

Side by side they strolled through the quaint 
village of stone houses and to the top of a near-by 
hill, where they found themselves looking down 
upon Joigny outlined against the hazy tints of the 
pink-and-gold horizon. 

“Oh, it’s beautiful!” she exclaimed enthusiasti- 
cally. “It’s a fairy world.” 

“Better; it’s a real world,” he answered. 

“ I doubt it, Monte,” she disagreed, with a touch 
of regret. “It’s too perfect.” 

It would not last. It would begin to fade in a 
moment, even as her fairy prince would fade and 
become just Monte. She knew from the past. Be- 
sides, it was absolutely essential that this should 
not last. If it did why, that would be absurd. 
It would be worse. It made her uncomfortable 


A WEDDING JOURNEY 135 

even to imagine this possibility for a moment, 
thus bringing about the very condition most un- 
favorable for fairy princes. For, if there is one 
advantage they have over ordinary princes, it is 
the gift of keeping their princesses always happy 
and content. 

Somewhat shyly she glanced up at Monte. He 
was standing with his uninjured hand thrust into 
the pocket of his Norfolk jacket, staring fixedly at 
the western sky as if he had lost himself there. 
She thought his face was a bit set; but, for all that, 
he looked this moment more as she had known 
him at twenty-one than when he came back at 
twenty-two. After his travels of a year he had 
seemed to her so much wiser than she that he had 
instantly become her senior. She had listened to 
him as to a man of the world, with something of 
awe. It was more difficult then to have him for a 
prince, because princes, though brave and adven- 
turous, must not be too wise. 

She smiled as she realized that, as he stood 
there now, Monte did not in the least inspire her 
with awe or fear or a sense of superior wisdom. 
The mellow light softened his features and the 
light breeze had tousled his hair, so that for all his 
years told he might have been back in his football 
days. He had been like that all the afternoon. 

A new tenderness swept over her. She would 
have liked to reach up her hand and smooth away 
the little puzzled frown between his brows. She 
almost dared to do it. Then he turned. 


THE TRIFLERS 


136 

‘‘You’re right,” he said, with a shrug of his 
shoulders. “It is n’t real. See, it’s fading now.” 

The pink clouds were turning a dull gray. 

“Perhaps it’s better it should,” she suggested. 
“If it stayed like that all the time, we’d get so 
used to it we would n’t see it.” 

He took out his watch. 

“I ordered supper to be ready in a half hour,” 
he said. “We’d better get back.” 

She fell in step by his side — by the side of her 
fairy prince. For, oddly enough, he had not be- 
gun to fade as the sunset faded. The twilight was 
deepening into the hushed night — a wonderful 
night that was like beautiful music heard at a dis- 
tance. It left her scarcely conscious of moving. 
In the sky the stars were becoming clearer; in the 
houses, candles were beginning to twinkle. It was 
difficult to tell which were which — as if the sky 
and the earth were one. 

There was no abrupt change even when they 
came into the inn, where near the open window a 
table had been set and two candles were burning. 

“Oh,” she exclaimed again, “here is another 
bit of fairy world.” 

He laughed abruptly. 

“I hope the supper is real, anyhow,” he said. 

He spoke as if making a conscious effort to 
break the spell. It made her glance up as he seated 
her; but all she thought of then was that she 
would like to smooth back his hair. The spell was 
not broken. 


A WEDDING JOURNEY 137 

Chops and cauliflower and a salad were served 
to them, with patties of fresh butter and crusted 
white bread. She was glad to see him eat heartily. 
She prepared his salad with a dash of salt and 
pepper, a little vinegar and oil. That much, at 
least, she was at liberty to do for him. It gave 
her a new pleasure. 

‘‘Monte,” she asked, “do you suppose it’s al- 
ways as nice as this here?” 

“If it were, would you like to stay?” he asked. 

She thought a moment over that. Would it be 
possible just to drift on day after day, with Monte 
always a fairy prince beside her? She glanced up 
and met his eyes. 

“I — I guess it’s best to follow our schedule,” 
she decided, with a little gasp. 


CHAPTER XIII 

A WEDDING JOURNEY {continued) 

Through the golden sunshine and beneath the 
blue sky, they went on the next day, until with a 
nod she chose her place to stop for lunch, until 
with another nod, as the sun was getting low, she 
chose her place to stop for the night. This time 
they did not ask to know even the name of the 
village. It was his suggestion. 

“Because,’’ he explained, “that makes it seem 
as if we were trying to get somewhere. And we 
are n’t, are we ? ” 

“Wherever we are, we are,” she nodded gayly. 

“It is n’t even important that we get to Etois,” 
he insisted. 

“Not in the slightest,” she agreed. “Only, if 
we keep on going we’ll get to the sea, won’t we?” 

“Then we can either skirt the shore or take a 
boat and cross the sea. It’s all one.” 

“All one ! You make me feel as if I had wings.” 

“Then you’re happy?” 

“Very, very happy, Monte. And you?” 

“Yes,” he answered abruptly. 

She had no reason to doubt it. That night, as 
she sat alone in her room, she reviewed this day in 
order to satisfy herself on this point; for she felt a 
certain obligation. He had given to her so gener- 


A WEDDING JOURNEY 139 

ously that the least she in her turn could do was 
to make sure that he was comfortable andcontent. 
That, all his life, was the most he had asked for. 
It was the most he asked for now. He must wake 
each morning free of worries, come down to a good 
breakfast and find his coffee hot, have a pleasant 
time of it during the day without being bored, 
and end with a roast and salad and later a good 
bed. These were simple desires — thoroughly 
wholesome, normal desires. With the means at 
his command, with the freedom from restraint 
that had been his ever since he left college, it was 
a great deal to his credit that he had been able to 
retain such modest tastes. He had been at liberty 
to choose what he wished, and he had chosen 
decently. 

This morning she had come down early and 
looked to his coffee herself. It was a slight thing, 
but she had awakened with a desire to do some- 
thing positive and personal for him. She had been 
satisfied when he exclaimed, without knowing the 
part she played in it: — 

‘‘This coffee is bully!” 

It had started the day right and given her a 
lightness of spirit that was refiected in her talk 
and even in her smiles. She had smiled from 
within. She was quite sure that the day had been 
a success, and that so far, at any rate, Monte had 
not been either bored or worried. Sitting there 
in the dark, she felt strangely elated over the fact. 
She had been able to send her fairy prince to his 


140 


THE TRIFLERS 


sleep contented. It gave her a motherly feeling of 
a task well done. After all, Monte was scarcely 
more than a boy. 

Her thoughts went back to the phrase he had 
used at the end of the day’s journey. 

‘‘We aren’t getting anywhere, are we?” he 
had asked. 

At the moment she had not thought he meant 
anything more than he said. He seldom did. It 
was restful to know that she need never look for 
hidden meanings in his chance remarks. He meant 
only that there was no haste; that it made no 
difference when they reached this town or that. 
They had no destination. 

That was true, and yet the thought disturbed 
her a trifle. It did not seem quite right for Monte 
to have no destination. He was worth something 
more than merely to revolve in a circle. He should 
have a Holy Grail. Give him something to fight 
for, and he would fight hard. Twice to-day she 
had caught a light in his eyes that had suggested 
this to her — a clean, white light that had hinted 
of a Monte with a destination. But would not 
that destroy the very poise that made him iust 
Monte? 

It was too puzzling a question for her own peace 
of mind. She turned away from it and slowly 
began to take down her hair. 

On and on they went the third day — straight 
on — with their destination still hidden. That 


A WEDDING JOURNEY 141 

night, when again alone, she sat even longer by 
her open window than she had yesterday, instead 
of going to bed and to sleep, which would have 
been the sensible thing to do. In some ways this 
had been rather a more exciting day than the 
others. Again she had risen early and come down 
to order his coffee; but he too must have risen 
early, for he had come upon her as she was giving 
her instructions. It had been an embarrassing 
moment for her, and she had tried to carry it off 
with a laugh. That she was not to do so surprised 
her and added a still deeper flush to her cheeks. 

“So this is the secret of my good coffee?’’ he 
asked. 

“There is so very little I can do for you,” she 
faltered. 

“That is a whole lot more than I deserve,” he 
answered. 

However, he was pleased by this trivial atten- 
tion, and she knew it. It was an absurdly insig- 
nificant incident, and yet here she was recalling it 
with something like a thrill. Not only that, but 
she recalled another and equally preposterous de- 
tail of the day. She had dropped her vanity-box 
in the car, and as they both stooped for it his 
cheek had brushed hers. He laughed lightly and 
apologized — forgetting it the next second. Eight 
hours later she dared remember it, like any school- 
girl. Small wonder that she glanced about to 
make sure the room was empty. It sent her to bed 
shamefaced. 


142 


THE TRIFLERS 


The fourth day came, with the golden road still 
unfolding before them and her fairy prince still 
beside her. Then the fifth day, and that night 
they stopped within sight of the ocean. It came 
as a surprise to both of them. It was as if, after 
all, they had reached a destination, when as a 
matter of fact they had done nothing of the sort. 
It meant, to be sure, that the next day would find 
them in Nice, which would end their ride, because 
they intended to remain there for a day or two 
until they arranged for a villa in Etois, which, 
being in the mountains, they must reach afoot. 
But if she did not like it she had only to nod and 
they could move on to somewhere else. There was 
nothing final even about Etois. 

That evening they walked by the shore of the 
sea, and Monte appeared quieter than usual. 

“ I have wired ahead for rooms at the Hotel des 
Roses,” he announced. 

“Yes, Monte,” she said. 

“It’s where I’ve stopped for ten years. The 
last time I was there I found Edhart gone, and 
was very uncomfortable.” 

“You were as dependent upon him as that?” 
she asked. 

“ It was what lured me on to Paris — and you,” 
he smiled. 

“Then I must be indebted to Edhart also.” 

“I think it would be no more than decent to 
look up his grave and place a wreath of roses 
there,” he observed. 


A WEDDING JOURNEY 


143 

‘‘But, Monte,” she protested, “I should hate 
to imagine he had to give up his life — for just 
this.” 

“At any rate, if he hadn’t died Pm sure I 
should have kept to my schedule,” he said seri- 
ously. 

“And then?” 

“I should not have been here.” 

“You speak regretfully?” she asked. 

He stopped abruptly and seized her arm. 

“You know better,” he answered. 

For a moment she looked dizzily into his eyes. 
Then he broke the tension by smiling. 

“I guess we’d better turn back,” he said below 
his breath. 

It was evident that Monte was not quite him- 
self at that moment. That night she heard the 
roll of the ocean as she tried to sleep, and it said 
many strange things to her. She did not sleep 
well. 

The next morning they were on their way again, 
reaching the Hotel des Roses at six in the after- 
noon. Henri was at the door to meet them. Henri, 
he thought, had greatly improved since his last 
visit. Perhaps Edhart, from his seat on high, had 
been instructing him. The man seemed to under- 
stand better without being told what Monsieur 
Covington desired. The apartments were ready, 
and it was merely a personal matter between 
Monte and the gargon to have his trunk trans- 
ferred from the second floor to the third and 


THE TRIFLERS 


144 

Marie’s trunk brought down from the third to the 
second. Even Edhart might have been pardoned 
for making this mistake in the distribution of the 
luggage, if not previously informed. 

That evening Marjory begged to be excused 
from dinner, and Monte dined alone. He dined 
alone in the small salle-a-manger where he had al- 
ways dined alone, and where the last time he was 
here he had grown in an instant from twenty-two 
to thirty-two. Now, in another instant, it was as 
if he had gone back to twenty-two. It was even 
almost as if Edhart had returned to life. The mel- 
low glow of the long twilight tinted the room just 
as it used to do. Across the boulevard he saw the 
Mediterranean, languid and blue. 

A thing that impressed Monte was how amaz- 
ingly friendly every one was — how amazingly 
friendly even the material objects were. His old 
table in the corner had been reserved for him, but 
this time it had been arranged for two. The empty 
chair opposite him was quite as friendly as Mar- 
jory herself might have been. It kept him com- 
pany and humored his thoughts. It said, as plainly 
as it is possible for a chair to speak : — 

“Madame Covington is disappointed to think 
she could not join you this evening, but you must 
remember that it is not to be expected of a woman 
to stand these long journeys like a man. How- 
ever, she will have breakfast with you in the 
morning. That is something to look forward to. 
In the meanwhile let me serve to remind you that 


A WEDDING JOURNEY 145 

she is upstairs — upstairs in the room you used 
to occupy. Perhaps even at this moment she is 
looking out the window at this same languid blue 
sea. Being up there, she is within call. Should 
you need her — really need her — you may be 
perfectly sure that she would come to you. 

“That time you were ill here two years ago, 
you had rather a bad time of it because there was 
no one to visit you except a few chance acquaint- 
ances about whom you did not care. Well, it 
would not be like that now. She would sit by your 
bed all night long and all day long, too, if you 
permitted. She is that kind. So, you see, you are 
really not dining alone to-night. I, though only 
an empty chair, am here to remind you of that.’’ 

Felix, who was in charge of the salle-a-manger, 
hovered near Monte as if he felt the latter to be 
his especial charge. He served as Monte’s right 
hand — the hand of the sling. He was very much 
disturbed because madame refused her dinner, 
and every now and then thought of something 
new that possibly might tempt her. 

Every one else about the hotel was equally 
friendly, racking his brains to find a way of serv- 
ing Monte by serving madame. It made him feel 
quite like those lordly personages who used to 
come here with a title and turn the place topsy- 
turvy for themselves and for their women-folk. 
He recalled a certain count of something who 
arrived with his young wife and who in a day had 
half of Nice in his service. Monte felt like him, 


THE TRIFLERS 


146 

only more so. There was a certain obsequiousness 
that the count demanded which vanished the mo- 
ment his back was turned; but the interest of 
Felix and his fellows now was based upon some- 
thing finer than fear. Monte felt it had to do with 
Marjory herself, and also — well, in a sense she 
was carrying a title too. She was, to these others, 
a bride. 

But it was a great relief to know that she was 
not the sort of bride of which he had seen too 
many in the last ten years. It would be a pleasure 
to show these fellows a bride who would give them 
no cause to smile behind their hands. He would 
show them a bride who could still conduct herself 
like a rational human being, instead of like a 
petulant princess or a moon-struck school girl. 

Monte lighted a cigarette and went out upon 
the Quai Massena for a stroll. It was late in the 
season for the crowds. They had long since ad- 
journed to the mountains or to Paris. But still 
there were plenty remaining. He would not have 
cared greatly had there been no one left. It was 
a relief to have the shore to himself. He had 
formerly been rather sensitive about being any- 
where out of season. In fact, this was the first 
time he had ever been here later than May. But 
the difference was not so great as he had imagined 
it must be. Neither the night sky nor the great 
turquoise mirror beneath it appeared out of 
season. 

Monte did not stray far. He walked contentedly 


A WEDDING JOURNEY 147 

back and forth for the matter of an hour. He 
might have kept on until midnight, had it not 
been for a messenger from the hotel who handed 
him a note. Indifferently he opened it and read : 

I’ve gone to the Hotel d’Angleterre. Please don’t 
try to see me to-night. Hastily, 


Marjory. 


CHAPTER XIV 

THE BRIDE RUNS AWAY 

Henri, who was greatly disturbed, explained to 
Monte that madame came downstairs shortly 
after monsieur left for his walk and asked for him. 
Being told that monsieur had gone out, she too 
had gone out, wearing a light shawl — to meet 
monsieur, as Henri supposed. In some fifteen 
minutes madame had returned, appearing some- 
what excited, if it were permissible to say so. 
Thereupon she had given orders to have her lug- 
gage and the luggage of her maid removed at once 
to the Hotel d’Angleterre. Henri had assured her 
that if her rooms were not suitable he would turn 
the house upside down to please her. 

“No, no,’’ she had answered; “it is not that. 
You are very kind, Henri.” 

He had then made so bold as to suggest that a 
messenger be sent out to find monsieur. 

“By all means,” she had answered. “ I will give 
you a note to take to him.” 

She had sat down and written the note and 
Henri had dispatched it immediately. But, 
also immediately, madame and her maid had 
left. 

“I beg monsieur to believe that if there is any- 
thing — ” 


THE BRIDE RUNS AWAY 149 

Monte waved the man aside, went to the tele- 
phone, and rang up the Hotel d’Angleterre. 

‘‘I wish to know if a Madame Covington has 
recently arrived,” 

‘‘Non, monsieur,” was the response. 

“Look here,” said Monte sharply. “Make sure 
of that. She must have reached there within fif- 
teen minutes.” 

“We have had no arrivals here within that time 
except a Mademoiselle Stockton and her maid.” 

“Eh?” snapped Monte. “Repeat that again.” 

“Mademoiselle Stockton,” the clerk obeyed. 

“She signed the register with that name?” 

“But yes. If monsieur — ” 

' “All right; thanks.” . 

“You found her?” inquired Henri solicitously. 

“Yes,” nodded Monte, and went out into the 
night again. 

There was nothing he could do — absolutely 
nothing. She had given her orders, and they must 
be obeyed. He returned to the Quai Massena, to 
the shore of the sea ; but he walked nervously now, 
in a world that, as far as he was concerned, was 
starless and colorless. He had thought at first, 
naturally enough, that Hamilton was in some way 
concerned; but he dismissed that now as wholly 
unplausible. Instead of running away, in that 
case, she would have sent for him. It was decid- 
edly more likely that this was some strange 
whimsy springing from within herself. 


THE TRIFLERS 


ISO 

In looking back at the last few days, he recalled 
now that upon several occasions she had acted in 
a way not quite like herself. Last night, for in- 
stance, she had been disturbed. Again, it was 
most unusual for her not to dine with him. 
He had accepted her excuse that she was tired; 
but now he blamed himself for not having 
seen through so artificial an excuse, for not hav- 
ing detected that something else was troubling 
her. 

She had run away as if in fear. She had not 
dared even to talk over with him the cause for her 
uneasiness. And he — blind, fool that he was — 
had not detected anything unusual. He had gone 
off mooning, leaving her to fight her own fight. 
He had been so confoundedly self-satisfied and 
content because she was here with him, where 
heretofore he had always been alone, that he had 
gone stony blind to her comfort. That was the 
crude fact. 

However, accusing himself did not bring him 
any nearer an explanation of her strange conduct. 
She would not have left him unless she had felt 
herself in some danger. If Hamilton were elimi- 
nated, who then remained by whom she could feel 
menaced ? Clearly it must be himself. 

The conclusion was like a blow in the face. It 
stunned him for a moment, and then left his 
cheeks burning. If she had scuttled away from 
him like a frightened rabbit, it could be for only 
one reason; because he had not been able to con- 


THE BRIDE RUNS AWAY 151 

ceal the truth. And he had thought that he had 
succeeded in keeping the danger to himself. 

He turned in the direction of the Hotel d’Angle- 
terre. He did not intend to try to see her. He 
wished only to be a little nearer. Surely there was 
no harm in that. The boulevard had become de- 
serted, and he was terribly lonesome out here 
alone. The old black dog that had pounced upon 
him in Paris came back and hugged him closer. 

He squared his shoulders. He must shake him- 
self free of that. The thing to keep in mind was 
that he did not count in this affair. She alone 
must be considered. If he had frightened her, he 
must find some way of reassuring her. He must 
take a tighter grip than ever upon himself, face her 
to-morrow, and laugh away her fears. He must 
do that, because he must justify her faith in him. 
That was all he had of her — her faith in him. If 
he killed that, then she would vanish utterly. 

After this last week, to be here or anywhere else 
without her was unthinkable. He must make her 
believe that he took even this new development 
lightly. He must go to her in the morning as 
just Monte. So, if he were very, very careful, he 
might coax her back a little way into his life. That 
was not very much to hope for. 

Monte was all wrong. From beginning to end, 
he was wrong. Marjory had run away, not from 
him, but from some one else. When she left the 
hotel she had been on her way to join monsieur, as 


THE TRIFLERS 


IS2 

Henri had correctly surmised. From her window 
she had been watching him for the matter of half 
an hour as he paced up and down the quay before 
the hotel. Every time Monte disappeared from 
sight at the end of a lap, she held her breath until 
he appeared again. Every time he appeared again, 
her heart beat faster. He seemed such a lonely 
figure that her conscience troubled her. He was 
so good, was Monte — so good and four-square. 

She had left him to dine alone, and without a 
protest he had submitted. That was like him; and 
yet, if he had only as much as looked his disap- 
pointment, she would have dressed and come 
down. She had been ready to do so. It was only 
the initial excitement that prompted her at first 
to shut herself up. Coming to this hotel, where for 
ten years he had been coming alone, was almost 
like going back into his life for that length of 
time. Then, Monte had signed the register ‘‘Mon- 
sieur and Madame Covington.” With bated 
breath she had watched him do it. 

After that the roses in her room and the atten- 
tion of every one to her as to a bride — all those 
things had frightened her at first. Yet she knew 
they were bowing low, not to her, but to Madame 
Covington. This was what made her ears burn. 
This was what made her seek the seclusion of her 
room. She felt like an imposter, claiming honors 
that did not belong to her. It made her so un- 
comfortable that she could not face even Marie. 
She sent her off. 


THE BRIDE RUNS AWAY 153 

Sitting by the open window, she watched Monte 
as he walked alone, with a queer little ache in her 
heart. How faithfully he had lived up to his bar- 
gain! He had given her every tittle of the free- 
dom she had craved. In all things he had sought 
her wishes, asking nothing for himself. It was she 
who gave the order for starting every morning, 
for stopping at night. She chose this inn or that, 
as pleased her fancy. She talked when she wished 
to talk, and remained silent when she preferred. If, 
instead of coming to Nice and Etois, she had ex- 
pressed a desire to turn in some other direction, 
she knew he would merely have nodded. 

It was all one to him. East, west, north, or 
south — what was the odds ? Married or single — 
what was the odds? 

So she also should have felt. With this big man 
by her side to guard her and do her will, she should 
have been able to abandon herself utterly to the 
delights of each passing hour — to the magic of 
the fairy kingdom he had made for her. It was 
all she had asked for, and that much it was her 
right to accept, if he chose to give it. She was 
cheating no one. Monte himself would have been 
the first to admit that. Therefore she should have 
been quite at peace with herself. 

The fact remained, however, that each day 
since they had left Paris she had found herself 
more and more at the mercy of strange moods; 
sometimes an unusual and inexplicable exhilara- 
tion, such as that moment last night when Monte 


THE TRIFLERS 


IS4 

had turned and seized her arm; sometimes an un- 
natural depression, like that which now oppressed 
her. These had been only intervals, to be sure. 
The hours between had been all she had looked 
forward to — warm, basking hours of lazy con- 
tent. 

To-night she had been longer than ever before 
in recovering her balance. She had expected to 
undress, go to bed, and so to sleep. Perhaps it was 
the sight of Monte pacing up and down there 
alone that prolonged her mood. Yet, not to see 
him, all that was necessary was to close her eyes 
or to turn the other way. It should have been 
easy to do this. Only it was not. She followed 
him back and forth. In some ways, a bride could 
not have acted more absurdly. 

At the thought she withdrew from the window 
in startled confusion. Standing in the middle of 
the room, she stared about as if challenged as to 
her right there by some unseen visitor. This 
would never do. She was too much alone. She 
must go to Monte. He would set her right, be- 
cause he understood. She would take his arm, his 
strong, steady arm, and walk a little way with 
him and laugh with him. That was what she 
needed. 

She hurried into her clothes, struggling nerv- 
ously with hooks and buttons as if there were 
need of haste. Then, throwing a light shawl over 
her shoulders, she went out past Henri, on her 
way to Monte. 


THE BRIDE RUNS AWAY 155 

Monte had been all wrong in his guesses. She 
had actually been running toward him instead of 
away from him when, just outside the hotel, she 
almost collided with Peter Noyes and his sister. 

Peter Noyes did not see her at first. His eyes 
were covered with a green shade, even out here in 
the night. But his sister Beatrice gave an excla- 
mation that brought him to attention and made 
him fumble at the shade as if to tear it off. Yet 
she had spoken but one word : — 

‘‘Marjory!’’ 

She whose name had been called shrank back as 
if hoping the dark would hide her. 

“Marjory!” cried Peter Noyes. 

Beatrice rushed forward, seizing both the girl’s 
hands. 

“ It is you,” she exclaimed, as if Marjory sought 
to deny the fact. “Peter — Peter, it’s Marjory 
Stockton!” 

Peter stepped forward, his hand outstretched 
hesitatingly, as one who cannot see. Marjory 
took the hand, staring with questioning eyes at 
Beatrice. 

“He worked too hard,” explained the latter. 
“This is the price he paid.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry, Peter!” she cried. 

He tried to smile. 

“It’s at moments like this I mind it,” he 
answered. “I — I thought you were in Paris, 
Marjory.” 

“I came here to-day.” 


THE TRIFLERS 


156 

She spoke nervously. 

“Then,” he asked, “you — you are to be here 
a little while?” 

Marjory passed her hand over her forehead. 

“I don’t know,” she faltered. 

Peter looked so thin! It was evident he had 
been long ill. She did not like to see him so. The 
shade over his eyes horrified her. Beatrice came 
nearer. 

“If you could encourage him a little,” she whis- 
pered. “He has wanted so much to see you.” 

It was as if she in some way were being held 
responsible. 

“You’re not stopping here?” gasped Marjory. 

“At the Hotel des Roses,” nodded Beatrice. 
“And you?” 

Peter with his haggard, earnest face, and Bea- 
trice with her clear honest eyes, filled her with 
sudden shame. It would be impossible to make 
them understand. They were so American — so 
direct and uncompromising about such affairs as 
these. 

Beatrice had the features of a Puritan maid, 
and dressed the part, from her severe little toque, 
her prim white dress reaching to her ankles, to her 
sturdy boots. Her blue eyes were already growing 
big at Marjory’s hesitancy at answering so simple 
a question. She had been here once with Aunt 
Kitty — they had stopped at the Hotel d’Angle- 
terre. Marjory mumbled that name now. 

“Then I may come over to-night to see you for 


THE BRIDE RUNS AWAY 157 

a moment, may I not?” said Beatrice. ‘‘It is 
time Peter went in now.” 

‘‘I — I may see you in the morning?” asked 
Peter. 

“In the morning,” she nodded. “Good-night.” 

She gave him her hand, and he held it as a 
child holds a hand in the dark. 

“Pll be over in half an hour,” Beatrice called 
back. 

It was only a few blocks to the Hotel d’Angle- 
terre, but Marjory ran the distance. Happily the 
clerk remembered her, or she might have found 
some difficulty in having her excited excuse ac- 
cepted that she was not quite suited at the Roses. 
Then back again to Henri and Marie she hurried, 
with orders to have the luggage transferred at 
once. 


CHAPTER XV 


IN THE DARK 

In her new room at the Hotel d’Angleterre, Mar- 
jory dismissed Marie and buried her hot face in 
her hands. She felt like a cornered thing — a 
shamed and cornered thing. She should not have 
given the name of the hotel. She should have 
sought Monte and ordered him to take her away. 
Only — she could not face Monte himself. She 
did not know how she was going to see him to- 
morrow — how she was ever going to see him 
again. “Monsieur and Madame Covington,” he 
had signed the register. Beatrice must have seen 
it, but Peter had not. He must never see it, be- 
cause he would force her to confess the truth — 
the truth she had been struggling to deny to her- 
self. 

She had trifled with a holy thing — that was 
the shameful truth. She had posed here as a wife 
when she was no wife. The ceremony at the Eng- 
lish chapel helped her none. It only made her 
more dishonest. The memory of Peter Noyes had 
warned her at the time, but she had not listened. 
She had lacked then some vision which she had 
since gained — gained through Monte. It was 
that which made her understand Peter now, and 
the wonder of his love and the glory and sacred- 


IN THE DARK 


IS9 

ness of all love. It was that which made her un- 
derstand herself now. 

She got to her feet, staring into the dark toward 
the seashore. 

‘‘Monte, forgive me — forgive me!’’ she 
choked. 

She had trifled with the biggest thing in his life 
and in her life. She shouldered the full blame. 
Monte knew nothing either of himself or of her. 
He was just Monte, honest and four-square, living 
up to his bargain. But she had seen the light in his 
eyes — the eyes that should have led him to the 
Holy Grail. He would have had to go such a little 
way — only as far as her outstretched arms. 

She shrank back from the window, her head 
bowed. It had been her privilege as a woman to 
be wiser than he. She should have known ! Now 
— the thought wrenched like a physical pain — 
there was nothing left to her but renunciation. 
She must help him to be free. She must force 
him free. She owed that to him and to herself. 
It was only so that she might ever feel clean again. 

Moaning his name, she flung herself upon the 
bed. So she lay until summoned back to life by 
Marie, who brought her the card of Miss Beatrice 
Noyes. 

Marjory took the time to bathe her dry cheeks 
in hot water and to do over her hair before admit- 
ting the girl; but, even with those precautions, 
Beatrice paused at the entrance as if startled by 
her appearance. 


i6o 


THE TRIFLERS 


“Perhaps you do not feel like seeing any one 
to-night,” she suggested. 

“I do want to see you,” answered Marjory. 
“I want to hear about Peter. But my head — 
would you mind if we sat in the dark?” 

“I think that would be better — if we are to 
talk about Peter.” 

The phrase puzzled Marjory, but she turned 
out the lights and placed two chairs near the 
open windows. 

“Now tell me from the beginning,” she re- 
quested. 

“The beginning came soon after you went 
away,” replied Beatrice in a low voice. 

Marjory leaned back wearily. If there were to 
be more complications for which she must hold 
herself accountable, she felt that she could not 
listen. Surely she had lived through enough for 
one day. 

“Peter cared a great deal for you,” Beatrice 
faltered on. 

“Why?” 

It was a cry in the night. 

Impulsively the younger girl leaned forward 
and fumbled for her hands. 

“You did n’t realize it?” she asked hopefully. 

“I realized nothing then. I realized nothing 
yesterday,” cried Marjory. “It is only to-day 
that I began to realize anything.” 

“To-day?” 

“Only to-night.” 


IN THE DARK 


i6i 


‘‘It was the sight of Peter looking so unlike 
himself that opened your heart,” nodded Beatrice. 

“Not my heart — just my eyes,” returned 
Marjory. 

“Your heart too,” insisted Beatrice; “for it’s 
only through your heart that you can open Pe- 
ter’s eyes.” 

“I — I don’t understand.” 

“Because he loves you,” breathed Beatrice. 

“No. No — not that.” 

“You don’t know how much,” went on the girl 
excitedly. “None of us knew how much — until 
after you went. Oh, he’d never forgive me if he 
knew I was talking like this ! But I can’t help it. 
It was because he would not talk — because he 
kept it a secret all to himself that this came upon 
him. They told me at the hospital that it was 
overwork and worry, and that he had only one 
chance in a hundred. But I sat by his side, Mar- 
jory, night and day, and coaxed him back. Little 
by little he grew stronger — all except his poor 
eyes. It was then he told me the truth : how he 
had tried to forget you in his work.” 

“He — he blamed me?” 

Beatrice was still clinging to her hands. 

“No,” she answered quickly. “He did not 
blame you. We never blame those we love, do 
we?” 

“But we hurt those we love!” 

“Only when we don’t understand. You did not 
know he loved you like that, did you?” 


THE TRIFLERS 


162 

Marjory withdrew her hands. 

“He had no right!” she cried. 

Beatrice was silent a moment. There was a 
great deal here that she herself did not under- 
stand. But, though she herself had never loved, 
there was a great deal she did understand. She 
spoke as if thinking aloud. 

“ I have not found love — yet,” she said. “But 
I never thought it was a question of right when 
people loved. I thought it — it just happened.” 

Marjory drew a quick breath. 

“Yes; it is like that,” she admitted. 

Only, she was not thinking of Peter. She was 
thinking of herself. A week ago she would have 
smiled at that phrase. Even yesterday she would 
have smiled a little. Love was something a woman 
or man undertook or not at will. It was a condi- 
tion to choose as one chose one’s style of living. 
It was accepted or rejected, as suited one’s plea- 
sure. If a woman preferred her freedom, then 
that was her right. 

Then, less than an hour ago, she had flung out 
her hands toward the shadowy figure of a man 
walking alone by the sea, her heart aching with a 
great need for the love that might have been hers 
had she not smiled. That need, springing of her 
own love, had just happened. The fulfillment of 
it was a matter to be decided by her own con- 
science; but the love itself had involved no ques- 
tion of right. She felt a wave of sympathy for 
Peter. She was able to feel for him now as never 


IN THE DARK 


163 

before. Poor Peter, lying there alone in the hos- 
pital! How the ache, unsatisfied, ate into one. 

“Peter would n’t tell me at first,” Beatrice was 
running on. “His lips were as tight closed as his 
poor bandaged eyes.” 

“The blindness,” broke in Marjory. “That is 
not permanent?” 

“I will tell you what the doctor told me,” 
Beatrice replied slowly. “He said that, while his 
eyes were badly overstrained, the seat of the 
trouble was mental. ‘He is worrying,’ he told 
me. ‘Remove the cause of that and he has a 
chance.’” 

“So you have come to me for that?” 

“It seems like fate,” said Peter’s sister, with 
something of awe in her voice. “When, little by 
little, Peter told me of his love, I thought of only 
one thing : of finding you. I wanted to cable you, 
because I — I thought you would come if you 
knew. But Peter would not allow that. He made 
me promise not to do that. Then, as he grew 
stronger, and the doctor told us that perhaps an 
ocean voyage would help him, I wanted to bring 
him to you. He would not allow that either. He 
thought you were in Paris, and insisted that we 
take the Mediterranean route. Then — ■ we hap- 
pen upon you outside the hotel we chose by chance! 
Does n’t it seem as if back of such a thing as that 
there must be something we don’t understand; 
something higher than just what we may think 
right or wrong?” 


THE TRIFLERS 


164 

“No, no; that’s impossible,” exclaimed Mar- 
jory* 

“Why?” 

“Because then we’d have to believe everything 
that happened was right. And it is n’t.” 

“Was our coming here not right?” 

Marjory did not answer. 

“If you could have seen the hope in Peter’s 
face when I left him!” 

“He does n’t know!” choked Marjory. 

“He knows you are here, and that is all he 
needs to know,” answered Beatrice. 

“If it were only as simple as that.” 

The younger girl rose and, moving to the other’s 
side, placed an arm over the drooping shoulders. 

“Marjory dear,” she said. “I feel to-night 
more like Peter than myself. I have listened so 
many hours in the dark as he talked about you. 
He — he has given me a new idea of love. I’d 
always thought of love in a — a sort of fairy-book 
way. I did n’t think of it as having much to do 
with everyday life. I supposed that some time a 
knight would come along on horseback — if ever 
he came — and take me off on a long holiday.” 

Marjory gave a start. The girl was smoothing 
her hair. 

“It would always be May-time,” she went on, 
“and we’d have nothing to do but gather posies 
In the sunshine. We’d laugh and sing, and there ’d 
be no care and no worries. Did you ever think of 
love that way?” 


IN THE DARK 


The girl spoke more slowly now, as if anxious 
to be quite accurate : — 

“But Peter seemed to think of other things. 
When we talked of you it was as if he wanted you 
to be a part of himself and help with the big 
things he was planning to do. He had so many 
wonderful plans in which you were to help. In- 
stead of running away from cares and worries, 
it was as though meeting these was what was 
going to make it May-time. Instead of riding off 
to some fairy kingdom, he seemed to feel that it 
was this that would make a fairy kingdom even of 
New York. Because” — she lowered her voice — 
“it was of a home and of children he talked, and 
of what a fine mother you would make. He talked 
of that — and somehow, Marjory, it made me 
proud just to be a woman! Oh, perhaps I should 
n’t repeat such things!” 

Marjory sprang to her feet. 

“You should n’t repeat them!” she exclaimed. 
“You mustn’t repeat anything more! And I 
must n’t listen!” 

“ It is only because you ’re the woman I came to 
know so well, sitting by his bed in the dark, that I 
dared,” she said gently. 

“You’ll go now?” pleaded Marjory. “I must 
n’t listen to any more.” 

Silently, as if frightened by what she had al- 
ready said, Beatrice moved toward the door. 

Marjory hurried after her. 


i66 


THE TRIFLERS 


“YouVe good,” she cried, “and Peter’s good! 
And I—” 

The girl finished for her : — 

“No matter what happens, you’ll always be to 
me Peter’s Marjory,” she said. “You’ll always 
keep me proud.” 


CHAPTER XVI 

A WALK ON THE QUAY 

Monte, stepping out of his room early after a 
restless night, saw a black-haired young man 
wearing a shade over his eyes fumbling about for 
the elevator button. He had the thin, nervous 
mouth and the square jaw of an American. 

Monte stepped up to him. 

‘‘May I help you?” he asked. 

“Thank you,” answered Noyes; “I thought I 
could make it alone, but there is n’t much light 
here.” 

Monte took his arm and assisted him to the 
elevator. The man appeared half blind. His heart 
went out to him at once. As they reached the first 
floor the stranger again hesitated. He smiled nerv- 
ously. 

“ I wanted to get out in the air,” he explained. 
“I thought I could find a valet to accompany 
me. 

Monte hesitated. He did not want to intrude, 
but there was something about this helpless 
American that appealed to him. Impulsively 
he said: “Would you come with me? Coving- 
ton is my name. I ’m just off for a walk along the 
quay.” 

“Noyes is my name,” answered Peter. “I’d 


i68 THE TRIFLERS 

like to come, but I don’t want to trouble you to 
that extent.” 

Monte took his arm. 

‘‘Come on,” he said. “It’s a bully morning.” 

“The air smells good,” nodded Noyes. “I 
should have waited for my sister, but I was a bit 
restless. Do you mind asking the clerk to let her 
know where I am when she comes down?” 

Monte called Henri. 

“Inform Miss Noyes we’ll be on the quay,” he 
told him. 

They walked in silence until they reached the 
boulevard bordering the ocean. 

“We have the place to ourselves,” said Monte. 
“If I walk too fast for you, let me know.” 

“I’m not very sure of my feet yet,” apologized 
Noyes. “I suppose in time I’ll get used to this.” 

“Good Lord, you don’t expect it to last?” 

“No. They tell me I have a fighting chance.” 

“How did it happen?” 

“Used them a bit too much, I guess,” answered 
Noyes. 

“That’s tough.” 

“A man has so darned much to do and such a 
little while to do it in,” exclaimed Noyes. 

“You must live in New York.” 

“Yes. And you?” 

“I generally drift back for the holidays. I’ve 
been traveling a good deal for the last ten years.” 

“I see. Some sort of research work?” 

The way Noyes used that word “work” made 


A WALK ON THE QUAY 169 

Monte uncomfortable. It was as if he took it for 
granted that a man who was a man must have a 
definite occupation. 

“I don’t know that you would call it exactly 
that,” answered Monte. “ I ’ve just been knocking 
around. I have n’t had anything in particular to 
do. What are you in ” 

‘‘Law. I wonder if you’re Harvard?” 

“Sure thing. And you?” 

Noyes named his class — a class six years later 
than Monte’s. 

“Well, we have something in common there, 
anyhow,” said Covington cordially. “My father 
was Harvard Law School. He practiced in Phil- 
adelphia.” 

“I’ve always lived in New York. I was born 
there, and I love it. I like the way it makes you 
hustle — the challenge to get in and live — ” 

He stopped abruptly, putting one hand to his 
eyes. 

“They hurt?” asked Monte anxiously. 

“You need your eyes in New York,” he an- 
swered simply. 

“You went in too hard,” suggested Monte. 

“Is there any other way?” cried Noyes. 

“I used to play football a little,” said Monte. 
“I suppose it’s something like that — when a 
man gets the spirit of the thing. When you hit 
the line you want to feel that you’re putting into 
it every ounce in you.” 

Noyes nodded. 


170 


THE TRIFLERS 


‘‘Into your work — into your life.” 

“Into your life?” queried Monte. 

“Into everything.” 

Monte turned to look at the man. His thin lips 
had come together in a straight line. His hollow 
cheeks were flushed. Every sense was as alert as 
a fencer’s. If he had lived long like that, no won- 
der his eyes had gone bad. Yet last night Monte 
himself had lived like that, pacing his room hour 
after hour. Only it was not work that had given 
a cutting edge to each minute — not life, whatever 
Noyes meant by that. His thoughts had all been 
of a woman. Was that life? Was it what Noyes 
had meant when he said “everything”? 

“This bucking the line all the time raises the 
devil with you,” he said. 

“How?” demanded Noyes. 

The answer Monte could have returned was 
obvious. The fact that amazed him was that 
Noyes could have asked the question with the sun 
and the blue sky shut away from him. It only 
proved again what Monte had always maintained 
— that excesses of any kind, whether of rum or 
ambition or — or love — drove men stark mad. 
Blind as a bat from overwork, Noyes still asked 
the question. 

“Look here,” said Monte, with a frown. “Be- 
fore the big events the coach used to take us one 
side and make us believe that the one thing in life 
we wanted w^as that game. He used to make us 
as hungry for it as a starved dog for a bone. He 


A WALK ON THE QUAY 171 

used to make us ache for it. So we used to wade 
in and tear ourselves all to pieces to get it.” 

“Well?” 

“If we won it was n’t so much; if we lost — 
it left us aching worse than before.” 

“Yes.” 

“There was the crowd that sat and watched us. 
They did n’t care the way we cared. We went 
back to the locker building in strings; they went 
off to a comfortable dinner.” 

“And the moral?” demanded Noyes. 

“Is not to care too darned much, is n’t it?” 
growled Monte. 

“If you want a comfortable dinner,” nodded 
Noyes. 

“Or a comfortable night’s sleep. Or if you want 
to wake up in the morning with the world looking 
right.” 

Again Monte saw the impulsive movement of 
the man’s hand to his eyes. 

He said quickly: “I did n’t mean to refer to 
that.” 

“ I forget it for a while. Then — suddenly — 
I remember it.” 

“You wanted something too hard,” said Monte 
gently. 

“ I wanted something with all there was in me. 
I still want it.” 

“You’re not sorry, then?” 

“If I were sorry for that, I’d be sorry I was 
alive.” 


172 


THE TRIFLERS 


“But the cost!” 

“Of what value is a thing that doesn’t cost?” 
returned Noyes. “All the big things cost big. 
Half the joy in them is pitting yourself against 
that and paying the price. The ache you speak 
of — that’s credited to the joy in the end. Those 
men in the grand-stand don’t know that. If you 
fight hard, you can’t lose, no matter what the 
score is against you.” 

“You mean it’s possible to get some of your fun 
out of the game itself?” 

“What else is there to life — if you pick the 
things worth fighting for?” 

“Then, if you lose — ” 

“You’ve lived,” concluded Noyes. 

“It’s men like you who ought really to win,” 
exclaimed Monte. “I hope you get what you 
went after.” 

“ I mean to,” answered Noyes, with grim de- 
termination. 

They had turned and were coming back in the 
direction of the hotel when Monte saw a girlish 
figure hurrying toward them. 

“ I think your sister is coming,” said Monte. 

“Then you can be relieved of me,” answered 
Noyes. 

“ But I ’ve enjoyed this walk immensely. I hope 
we can take another. Are you here for long?” 

“Indefinitely. And you?” 

“Also indefinitely.” 

Miss Noyes was by their side now. 


A WALK ON THE QUAY 173 

“Sister — this is Mr. Covington,-” Peter intro- 
duced her. 

Miss Noyes smiled. 

“IVe good news for you, Peter,” she said. 
“IVe just heard from Marjory, and she’ll see 
you at ten.” 

Monte was startled by the name, but was even 
more startled by the look of joy that illuminated 
the features of the man by his side. For a second 
it was as if his blind eyes had suddenly come to 
life. 

Monte caught his breath. 


CHAPTER XVII 

JUST MONTE 

Monte was at the Hotel d’Angleterre at nine. 
In response to his card he received a brief note. 

Dear Monte [he read]: Please don’t ask to see me 
this morning. I’m so mixed up I’m afraid I won’t 
be at all good company. 

Yours, Marjory. 

Monte sent back this note in reply: — 

Dear Marjory: If you’re mixed up, I’m just the 
one you ought to see. You’ve been thinking again. 

Monte. 

She came into the office looking like a hunted 
thing; but he stepped forward to meet her with a 
boyish good humor that reassured her in an in- 
stant. The firm grip of his hand alone was enough 
to steady her. Her tired eyes smiled gratitude. 

‘H never expected to be married and deserted 
— all in one week,” he said lightly. “What’s the 
trouble?” 

He felt like a comedian trying to be funny with 
the heart gone out of him. But he knew she ex- 
pected no less. He must remain just Monte or he 
would only frighten her the more. No matter if 
his heart pounded until he could not catch his 
breath, he must play the care-free chump of a 


JUST MONTE 


I7S 

compagnon de voyage. That was all she had mar-> 
ried — all she wanted. She glanced at his arm in 
its black sling. 

‘‘Who tied that this morning?” she asked. 

“The valet.” 

“He did n’t do it at all nicely. There’s a little 
sun parlor on the next floor. Come with me and 
I’ll do it over.” 

He followed her upstairs and into a room 
filled with flowers and wicker chairs. She stood 
before him and readjusted the handkerchief, so 
near that he thought he felt her breath. It was a 
test for a man, and he came through it nobly. 

“There — that’s better,” she said. “Now take 
the big chair in the sun.” 

She drew it forward a little, though he protested 
at so much attention. She dropped into another 
seat a little away from him. 

“Well?” he inquired. “Aren’t you going to 
tell me about it?” 

He was making it as easy as possible — easier 
than she had anticipated. 

“Won’t you please smoke?” 

He lighted a cigarette. 

“Now we’re off,” he encouraged her. 

He was leaning back with one leg crossed over 
the other — a big, wholesome boy. His blue eyes 
this morning were the color of the sky, and just as 
clean and just as untroubled. As she studied him 
the thought uppermost in her mind was that she 
must not hurt him. She must be very careful 


176 THE TRIFLERS 

about that. She must give him nothing to worry- 
over. 

“Monte,” she began, “I guess women have a 
lot of queer notions men don’t know anything 
about. Can’t we let it go at that?” 

“If you wish,” he nodded. “Only — are you 
going to stay here?” 

“For a little while, anyway,” she answered. 

“You mean — a day or two?” 

“Or a week or two.” 

“You’d rather not tell me why?” 

“If you please — not,” she answered quickly. 

He thought a moment, and then asked : — 

“It was n’t anything I did?” 

“No, no,” she assured him. “You’ve been so 
good, Monte.” 

He was so good with her now — so gentle and 
considerate. It made her heart ache. With her 
chin in hand, elbow upon the arm of her chair, 
she was apparently looking at him more or less 
indifferently, when what she would have liked to 
do was to smooth away the perplexed frown be- 
tween his brows. 

“Then,” he asked, “your coming here has n’t 
anything to do with me?” 

She could not answer that directly. With her 
cheeks burning and her lips dry, she tried to think 
just what to say. Above all things, she must not 
worry him ! 

“ It has to do with you and myself and — Peter 
Noyes,” she answered. 


JUST MONTE 


177 


“Peter Noyes!” 

He sat upright. 

“He is at the Hotel des Roses — with his sis- 
ter,” Marjory ran on hurriedly. “They are both 
old friends, and I met them quite by accident 
last night. Suddenly, Monte, — they made my 
position there impossible. They gave me a new 
point of view on myself — on you. I guess it was 
an American point of view. What had seemed 
right before did not seem right then.” 

“Is that why you resumed your maiden name ? ” 

“That is why. But sooner or later Peter will 
know the truth, won’t he?” 

“How will he know?” 

“The name you signed on the register.” 

“That’s so, too,” Monte admitted. “But that 
says only ‘Madame Covington.’ Madame Cov- 
ington might be any one.” 

He smiled, but his lips were tense. 

“ She may have been called home unexpectedly.” 

The girl hid her face in her hands. He rose and 
stepped to her side. 

“There, there,” he said gently. “Don’t worry 
about that. There is no reason why they should 
ever associate you with her. If they make any 
inquiries of me about madame. I’ll just say she 
has gone away for a little while — perhaps for a 
week or two. Is that right?” 

“I — I don’t know.” 

“Nothing unusual about that. Wives are al- 
ways going away. Even Chic’s wife goes away 


THE TRIFLERS 


178 

every now and then. As for you, little woman, I 
think you did the only thing possible. I met that 
Peter Noyes this morning.” 

Startled, she raised her face from her hands. 

“You met — Peter Noyes she asked slowly. 

“Quite by chance. He was on his way to walk, 
and I took him with me. He ’s a wonderful fellow, 
Marjory.” 

“You talked with him?” 

He nodded. 

“He takes life mighty seriously.” 

“Too seriously, Monte,” she returned. 

“It’s what made him blind; and yet — there’s 
something worth while about a man who gets into 
the game that way. Hanged if he did n’t leave 
me feeling uncomfortable.” 

She looked worried. 

“How, Monte?” 

“Oh, as though I ought to be doing something 
instead of just kicking around the Continent. Do 
you know I had a notion of studying law at one 
time?” 

“But there was no need of it, was there?” 

“Not in one way. Only, I suppose I could have 
made myself useful somewhere, even if I did n’t 
have to earn a living. Maybe there’s a use for 
every one — somewhere.” 

He had left her side, and was staring out the 
window toward the ocean. She watched him anx- 
iously. She had never seen him like this, and yet, 
in a way, this was the same Monte in whose eyes 


JUST MONTE 


179 

she had caught a glimpse of the wonderful bright 
light. It was the man who had leaned toward her 
as they walked on the shore the night before they 
reached Nice — a gallant prince of the fairy- 
books, ready to step into real life and be a gallant 
prince there. 

Monte had never had a chance. Had he been 
left as Peter Noyes had been left, dependent upon 
himself, he would have done all that Peter had 
done, without losing his smile. Marjory must not 
allow him to lose that now. His mouth was droop- 
ing with such exaggerated melancholy that she 
felt something must be done at once. She began 
to laugh. He turned quickly. 

“You look as if you had lost your last friend,” 
she chided him. “If talking with Peter Noyes 
does that to you, I don’t think you had better 
talk with him any more.” 

“He’s worth more to-day, blind, than I with 
my two eyes.” 

“The trouble with Peter is that he can’t smile,” 
she answered. “After all, it would be a sad world 
if no one were left to smile.” 

The words brought back to him the phrase she 
had used at the Normandie : “ I am depending on 
you to keep me normal.” 

Here was something right at hand for him to 
do, and a man’s job at that. He had wanted a 
chance to play the game, and here it was. Per- 
haps the game was not so big as some, — it con- 
cerned only her and him, — but there was a cer- 


i8o 


THE TRIFLERS 


tain added challenge in playing the little game 
hard. Besides, the importance of the game was 
a good deal in the point of view. If, for him, it was 
big, that was enough. 

As he stood before her now, the demand upon 
him for all his nerve was enough to satisfy any 
man. To assume before her the pose of the care- 
free chump that she needed to balance her own 
nervous fears — to do this with every muscle in 
him straining toward her, with the beauty of her 
making him dizzy, with hot words leaping for 
expression to his dry lips, those facts, after all, 
made the game seem not so small. 

“Where are you going to lunch to-day?” he 
asked. 

“I don’t know, Monte,” she answered indiffer- 
ently. “I told Peter he could come over at ten.” 

“I see. Want to lunch with him?” 

“I don’t want to lunch with any one.” 

“He’ll probably expect you. I was going to 
look at some villas to-day; but I suppose that’s 
all off.” 

Her cheeks turned scarlet. 

“Yes.” 

“Then I guess I’ll walk to Monte Carlo and 
lunch there. How about dinner?” 

“If they see us together — ” 

“Ask them to come along too. You can tell 
them I’m an old friend. I am that, am I not?” 

“One of the oldest and best,” she answered 
earnestly. 


JUST MONTE i8i 

“Then I’ll call you up when I come back. 
Good luck.” 

With a nod and a smile, he left her. 

From the window she watched him out of sight. 
He did not turn. There was no reason in the world 
why she should have expected him to turn. He 
had a pleasant day before him. He would amuse 
himself at the Casino, enjoy a good luncheon, 
smoke a cigarette in the sunshine, and call her up 
at his leisure when he returned. Except for the 
light obligation of ascertaining her wishes con- 
cerning dinner, it was the routine he had followed 
for ten years. It had kept him satisfied, kept him 
content. Doubtless, if he were left undisturbed, 
it would keep him satisfied and content for an- 
other decade. He would always be able to walk 
away from her without turning back. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


PETER 

Beatrice brought Peter at ten, and, in spite of 
the mute appeal of Marjory’s eyes, stole off on 
tiptoe and left her alone with him. 

^‘Has Trix gone?” demanded Peter. 

“Yes.” 

“ She should n’t have done that,” he com- 
plained. 

Marjory made him comfortable in the chair 
Monte had lately occupied, finding a cushion for 
his head. 

“Please don’t do those things,” he objected. 
“You make me feel as if I were wearing a sign 
begging for pity.” 

“How can any one help pitying you, when they 
see you like this, Peter?” she asked gently. 

“What right have they to do it?” he demanded. 
“Right?” 

She frowned at that word. So many things in 
her life seemed to have been decided without re- 
spect for right. 

“I’m the only one to say whether I shall be 
pitied or not,” he declared. “I’ve lost the use of 
my eyes temporarily by my own fault. I don’t 
like it; but I refuse to be pitied.” 

Marjory was surprised to find him so aggressive. 


PETER 


183 

It was not what she expected after listening to 
Beatrice. It changed her whole attitude toward 
him instantly from one of guarded condolence to 
honest admiration. There was no whine here. 
He was blaming no one — neither himself nor her. 
It was with a wave of deep and sincere sympathy, 
springing spontaneously from within herself, that 
she spoke. 

“Peter,” she said, “I won’t pity you any more.. 
But if I ’m sorry for you — awfully sorry — you 
won’t mind that?” 

“ I ’d rather you would n’t think of my eyes at 
all,” he answered unsteadily. “I can almost for- 
get them myself — with you.” 

“Then,” she said, “we’ll forget them. Are you 
going to stay here long, Peter?” 

“Are you?” 

“My plans are uncertain. I don’t think I shall 
ever make any more plans.” 

“You must n’t let yourself feel that way,” 
Peter returned. “The thing to do, if one scheme 
fails, is to start another — right off.” 

“But nothing ever comes out as you expect.’* 

“That gives you a chance to try again.’* 

“You can’t keep that up forever?” 

“Forever and ever,” he nodded. “It’s what 
makes life worth living.” 

“Peter,” she said below her breath, “you’re 
wonderful.” 

He seemed to clear the muggy air around her 
like a summer shower. In touch with his fine cour- 


THE TRIFLERS 


184 

age, her own returned. She felt herself steadier 
and calmer than she had been for a week. 

“What if you make mistakes, Peter?” 

“It’s the only way you learn,” he answered. 
“There’s a new note in your voice, Marjory. 
Have — you been learning ? ” 

His meaning was clear. He leaned forward as 
if trying to pierce the darkness between them. 
His thin white hands were tight upon the chair 
arms. 

“At least, I’ve been making mistakes,” she 
answered uneasily. 

She felt, for a second, as if she could pour out 
her troubles to him — as if he would listen pa- 
tiently and give her of his wisdom and strength. 
It would be easier — she was ashamed of the 
thought, but it held true — because he could not 
see. Almost — she could tell him of herself and 
of Monte. 

“There’s such a beautiful woman in you!” he 
explained passionately. 

With her heart beating fast, she dropped back 
in her chair. There was the old ring in his voice — 
the old masterful decision that used to frighten 
her. There used to be moments when she was 
afraid that he might command her to come with 
him as with authority, and that she would go. 

“ I ’ve always known that you’d learn some day 
all the fine things that are in you — all the fine 
things that lay ahead of you to do as a woman,” 
he ran on. “You’ve only been waiting; that’s all.” 


PETER 


i8s 

He could not see her cheeks — she was thankful 
for that. But the wonder was that he did not hear 
the pounding of her heart. He spoke like this, not 
knowing of this last week. 

‘‘You remember all the things I said to you — 
before you left?” 

“Yes.” 

“I can’t say them to you now. I must wait 
until I get my eyes back. Then I shall say them 
again, and perhaps — ” 

“Do you think I ’d let you wait for your eyes ? ” 
she cried. 

“You mean that now — ” 

“No, no, Peter,” she interrupted, in a panic. 
“ I did n’t mean I could listen now. Only I did n’t 
want you to think I was so selfish that if it were 
possible to share the light with you I — I would 
n’t share the dark too.” 

“There would n’t be any dark for me at all if 
you shared it,” he answered gently. 

Then she saw his lips tighten. 

“We must n’t talk of that,” he said. “We 
must n’t think of it.” 

Yet, of all the many things they discussed this 
morning, nothing left Marjory more to think 
about. It seemed that, so far, her freedom had 
done nothing but harm. She had intended no 
harm. She had desired only to lead her own life 
day by day, quite by herself. So she had fled 
from Peter — with this result; then she had fled 
from Teddy, who had lost his head completely; 


i86 


THE TRIFLERS 


finally she had fled, not from Monte but with him, 
because that seemed quite the safest thing to do. 
It had proved the most dangerous of all! If she 
had driven Peter blind, Monte — if he only knew 
it — had brought him sweet revenge, because he 
had made her, not blind, but something that 
was worse, a thousand times worse! 

There was some hope for Peter. It is so much 
easier to cure blindness than vision. Always she 
must see the light that had leaped to Monte’s 
eyes, kindled from the fire in her own soul. Al- 
ways she must see him coming to her outstretched 
arms, knowing that she had lost the right to lift 
her arms. Perhaps she must even see him going 
to other arms, that flame born of her breathed 
into fuller life by other lips. If not — then the 
ultimate curse of watching him remain just 
Monte, knowing he might have been so much 
more. This because she had dared trifle with that 
holy passion and so had made herself unworthy 
of it. 

Peter was telling her of his work; of what he 
had accomplished already and of what he hoped 
to accomplish. She heard him as from a distance, 
and answered mechanically his questions, while 
she pursued her own thoughts. 

It seemed almost as if a woman was not allowed 
to remain negative; that either she must accom- 
plish positive good or positive harm. So far, she 
had accomplished only harm ; and now here was an 
opportunity that was almost an obligation to offset 


PETER 


187 

that to some degree. She must free Monte as soon 
as possible. That was necessary in any event. She 
owed it to him. It was a sacred obligation that 
she must pay to save even the frayed remnant of 
her pride. This had nothing to do with Peter. 
She saw now it would have been necessary just 
the same, even if Peter had not come to make it 
clearer. Until she gave up the name to which she 
had no right, with which she had so shamelessly 
trifled, she must feel only glad that Peter could 
not see into her eyes. 

So Monte would go on his way again, and she 
would be left — she and Peter. If, then, what 
Beatrice said was true, — if it was within her 
power, at no matter what sacrifice, to give Peter 
back the sight she had taken, — then so she might 
undo some of the wrong she had done. The bigger 
the sacrifice, the fiercer the fire might rage to burn 
her clean. Because she had thought to sacrifice 
nothing, she had been forced to sacrifice every- 
thing; if now she sacrificed everything, perhaps, 
she could get back a little peace in return. She 
would give her life to Peter — give him every- 
thing that was left in her to give. Humbly she 
would serve him and nurse the light back into his 
eyes. Was it possible to do this.^ 

She saw Beatrice at the door, and rose to meet 
her. 

^‘You’re to lunch with me,” she said. “Then, 
for dinner, Mr. Covington has asked us all to join 
him.” 


THE TRIFLERS 


i88 

‘‘Covington?” exclaimed Peter. “Is n’t he the 
man who was so decent to me this morning?” 

“He said he met you,” answered Marjory. 

“I liked him,” declared Peter. “I’ll be mighty 
glad to see more of him.” 

“And I too,” nodded Beatrice. “He looked so 
very romantic with his injured arm.” 

“Monte romantic?” smiled Marjory. “That’s 
the one thing in the world he is n’t.” 

“Just who is he, anyway?” inquired Beatrice. 

“He’s just Monte,” answered Marjory. 

“And Madame Monte — where is she? I no- 
ticed by the register there is such a person.” 

“I — I think he said she had been called away 
— unexpectedly,” Marjory gasped. 

She turned aside with an uncomfortable feeling 
that Beatrice had noticed her confusion. 


CHAPTER XIX 

AN EXPLANATION 

The following week Monte devoted himself 
wholly to the entertainment of Marjory and her 
friends. He placed his car at their disposal, and 
planned for them daily trips with the thorough- 
ness of a courier, though he generally found some 
excuse for not going himself. His object was sim- 
ple: to keep Marjory’s days so filled that she would 
have no time left in which to worry. He wanted to 
help her, as far as possible, to forget the preceding 
week, which had so disturbed her. To this end 
nothing could be better for her than Peter and 
Beatrice Noyes, who were so simply and honestly 
plain, everyday Americans. They were just the 
wholesome, good-natured companions she needed 
to offset the morbid frame of mind into which he 
had driven her. Especially Peter. He was good 
for her and she was good for him. 

The more he talked with Peter Noyes the better 
he liked him. At the end of the day — after see- 
ing them started in the morning, Monte used to 
go out and walk his legs off till dinner-time — he 
enjoyed dropping into a chair by the side of Peter. 
It was wonderful how already Peter had picked 
up. He had gained not only in weight and color, 
but a marked mental change was noticeable. He 


THE TRIFLERS 


190 

always came back from his ride in high spirits. 
So completely did he ignore his blindness that 
Monte, talking with him in the dark, found him- 
self forgetting it — awakening to the fact each 
time with a shock when it was necessary to offer 
an assisting arm. 

It was the man’s enthusiasm Monte admired. 
He seemed to be always alert — always keen. Yet, 
as near as he could find out, his life had been any- 
thing but adventuresome or varied. After leaving 
the law school he had settled down in a New York 
office and just plugged along. He confessed that 
this was the first vacation he had taken since he 
began practice. 

‘‘You can hardly call this a vacation!” ex- 
claimed Monte. 

“Man dear,” answered Peter earnestly, “you 
don’t know what these days mean to me.” 

“You sure are entitled to all the fun you can 
get out of them,” returned Monte. “But I hate 
to think how I’d feel under the same circum- 
stances.” 

“I don’t believe there is much difference be- 
tween men,” answered Peter. “I imagine that 
about certain things we all feel a good deal alike.” 

“I wonder,” mused Monte. “I can’t imagine 
myself, for instance, living twelve months in the 
year in New York and being enthusiastic about 
it.” 

“What do you do when you ’re there ? ” inquired 
Peter. 



DID N’T BEATRICE TELL ME YOU REGISTERED HERE WITH YOUR WIFfi? 



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AN EXPLANATION 


191 

“Not much of anything,” admitted Monte. 

“Then you’re no more in New York when 
you’re there than in Jericho,” answered Peter. 
“You ’ve got to get into the game really to live in 
New York. You ’ve got to work and be one of the 
million others before you can get the feel of the 
city. Best of all, a man ought to marry there. 
You’re married, are n’t you, Covington?” 

“Eh?” 

“Did n’t Beatrice tell me you registered here 
with your wife?” 

Monte moistened his lips. 

“Yes — she was here for a day. She — she was 
called away.” 

“That’s too bad. I hope we’ll have an oppor- 
tunity to meet her before we leave.” 

“Thanks.” 

“ She ought to help you understand New York.” 

“Perhaps she would. We’ve never been there 
together.” 

“Been married long?” 

“No.” 

“So you have n’t any children.” 

“Hardly.” 

“Then,” said Peter, “you have your whole life 
ahead of you. You have n’t begun to live any- 
where yet.” 

“And you?” 

“It’s the same with me,” confessed Peter, with 
a quick breath. “Only — well, I haven’t been 
able to make even the beginning you’ve made.” 


THE TRIFLERS 


192 

Monte leaned forward with quickened interest. 

“That’s the thing you wanted so hard?” he 
asked. 

“Yes.” 

“To marry and have children?” 

Monte was silent a moment, and then he 
added : — 

“I know a man who did that.” 

“A man who does n’t is n’t a man, is he?” 

“I — I don’t know,” confessed Monte. “I’ve 
visited this friend once or twice. Did you ever 
see a kiddy with the croup?” 

“No,” admitted Peter. 

“You’re darned lucky. It’s just as though — 
as though some one had the little devil by the 
throat, trying to strangle him.” 

“There are things you can do.” 

“Things you can try to do. But mostly you 
stand around with your hands tied, waiting to see 
what’s going to happen.” 

“Well?” queried Peter, evidently puzzled. 

“That’s only one of a thousand things that can 
happen to ’em. There are worse things. They are 
happening every day.” 

“Well?” 

“When I think of Chic and his children I think 
of him pacing the hall with his forehead all sweaty 
with the ache inside of him. Nothing pleasant 
about that, is there?” 

Peter did not answer for a moment, and then 
what he said seemed rather pointless. 


AN EXPLANATION 


193 


“What of it?” he asked. 

“Only this,” answered Monte uneasily. “When 
you speak of a wife and children you have to re- 
member those facts. You have to consider that 
you ’re going to be torn all to shoe-strings every so 
often. Maybe you open the gates of heaven, but 
you throw open the gates of hell too. There’s no 
more jogging along in between on the good old 
earth.” 

“Good Lord ! ” exclaimed Peter. “You consider 
such things?” 

“I’ve always tried to stay normal,” answered 
Monte uneasily. 

“Yet you said you’re married?” 

“Even so, is n’t it possible for a man to keep his 
head?” demanded Monte. 

“ I don’t understand,” replied Peter. 

“Look here — I don’t want to intrude in your 
affairs, but I don’t suppose you are talking merely 
abstractedly. You have some one definite in 
mind?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then you ought to understand; you’ve kept 
steady.” 

“I wouldn’t be like this if I had,” answered 
Peter. 

“You mean your eyes.” 

“I tried to forget her because she wasn’t 
ready to listen. I turned to my work, and put in 
twenty hours a day. It was a fool thing to do. And 
yet — ” 


THE TRIFLERS 


194 

Monte held his breath. 

“From the depths I saw the heights, I saw the 
wonderful beauty of the peaks.” 

“And still see them?” 

“Clearer than ever now.” 

“Then you aren’t sorry she came into your 
life?” 

“Sorry, man?” exclaimed Peter. “Even at this 
price — even if there were no hope ahead, I’d 
still have my visions.” 

“But there is hope?” 

“I have one chance in a thousand. It’s more 
than anything I ’ve had up to now.” 

“One in a thousand is a fighting chance,” Monte 
returned. 

“You speak as if that were more than you had.” 

“It was.” 

“Yet you won out.” 

“How?” demanded Monte. 

“She married you.” 

• “Yes,” answered Monte, “that’s true. I say, 
old man — it’s getting a bit cool here. Perhaps 
we’d better go in.” 

Monte had planned for them a drive to Cannes 
the day Beatrice sent word to Marjory that she 
would be unable to go. 

“But you two will go, won’t you?” she con- 
cluded her note. “Peter will be terribly disap- 
pointed if you don’t.” 

So they went, leaving at ten o’clock. At ten« 


AN EXPLANATION 


I9S 

fifteen Beatrice came downstairs, and ran into 
Monte just as he was about to start his walk. 

‘‘You’re feeling better?” he asked politely. 

She shook her head. 

“I — I’m afraid I told a fib.” 

“You mean you stayed because you did n’t 
want to go.” 

“Yes. But I did n’t say I had a headache.” 

“I know how you feel about that,” he returned. 
“Leaving people to guess wrong lets you out in 
one way, and in another it does n’t.” 

She appeared surprised at his directness. She 
had expected him to pass the incident over lightly. 

‘"It was for Peter’s sake, anyhow,” she tried to 
justify her position. “But don’t let me delay you, 
please. I know you ’re off for your morning walk.” 

That was true. But he was interested in that 
statement she had just made that it was for 
Peter’s sake she had remained behind. It revealed 
an amazingly dense ignorance of both her broth- 
er’s position and Marjory’s. On no other theory 
could he make it seem consistent for her to en- 
courage a tete-a-tete between a married woman 
and a man as deeply in love with some one else as 
Peter was. 

“Won’t you come along a little way? ” he asked. 
“We can turn back at any time.” 

She hesitated a moment — but only a moment. 

“Thanks.” 

She fell into step at his side as he sought the 
quay. 


THE TRIFLERS 


196 

‘‘YouVe been very good to Peter,” she said. 
‘‘I’ve wanted a chance to tell you so.” 

“You did n’t remain behind for that, I hope,” 
he smiled. 

“No,” she admitted; “but I do appreciate your 
kindness. Peter has had such a terrible time of it.” 

“And yet,” mused Monte aloud, “he does n’t 
seem to feel that way himself.” 

“He has confided in you.^” 

“A little. He told me he regretted nothing.” 

“He has such fine courage!” she exclaimed. 

“Not that alone. He has had some beautiful 
dreams.” 

“That’s because of his courage.” 

“It takes courage, then, to dream?” Monte 
asked. 

“Don’t you think it does — with your eyes 
gone?” 

“With or without eyes,” he admitted. 

“You don’t know what he’s been through,” she 
frowned. “Even he does n’t know. When I came 
to him, there was so little of him left. I ’ll never 
forget the first sight I had of him in the hospital. 
Thin and white and blind, he lay there as though 
dead.” 

He looked at the frail young woman by his side. 
She must have had fine courage too. There was 
something of Peter in her. 

“And you nursed him back.” 

She blushed at the praise. 

“Perhaps I helped a little; but, after all, it was 


AN EXPLANATION 


197 

the dreams he had that counted most. All I did 
was to listen and try to make them real to him. 
I tried to make him hope.” 

‘‘That was fine.” 

“He loved so hard, with all there was in him, as 
he does everything,” she explained. 

“I suppose that was the trouble,” he nodded. 

She turned quickly. It was as if he said that 
was the mistake. 

“After all, that’s just love, is n’t it.^ There 
can’t be any halfway about it, can there?” 

“I wonder.” 

“You — you wonder, Mr. Covington?” 

He was stupid at first. He did not get the con- 
nection. Then, as she turned her dark eyes full 
upon him, the blood leaped to his cheeks. He was 
married — that was what she was trying to tell 
him. He had a wife, and so presumably knew 
what love was. For her to assume anything else, 
for him to admit anything else, was impossible. 

“Perhaps we’d better turn back,” she said 
uneasily. 

He felt like a cad. He turned instantly. 

“I’m afraid I did n’t make myself very clear,” 
he faltered. “We are n’t all of us like Peter.” 

“There is no one in the world quite as good as 
Peter,” the girl declared. 

“Then you should n’t blame me too much,” he 
suggested. 

“It is not for me to criticize you at all,” she 
returned somewhat stiffly. 


THE TRIFLERS 


198 

“But you did.” 

“How?” 

“When you suggested turning back. It was as 
if you had determined I was not quite a proper 
person to walk with.” 

“Mr. Covington!” she protested. 

“We may as well be frank. It seems to be a mis- 
fortune of mine lately to get things mixed up. 
Peter is helping me to see straight. That’s why 
I like to talk with him.” 

“He sees so straight himself.” 

“That’s it.” 

“If only now he recovers his eyes.” 

“He says there’s hope.” 

“It all depends upon her,” she said. 

“Upon this woman?” 

“Upon this one woman.” 

“If she realized it — ” 

“She does,” broke in Beatrice. “I made her 
realize it. I went to her and told her.” 

“You did that?” 

She raised her head in swift challenge. 

“Even though Peter commanded me not to — 
even though I knew he would never forgive me if 
he learned.” 

“You women are so wonderful,” breathed 
Monte. 

“With Peter’s future — with his life at stake 
— what else could I do?” 

“And she, knowing that, refused to come to 
him?” 


AN EXPLANATION 


199 


“Fate brought us to her.” 

“Then,” exclaimed Monte, “what are you do- 
ing here?” 

She stopped and faced him. It was evident 
that he was sincere. 

“You men — all men are so stupid at times!” 
she cried, with a little laugh. 

He shook his head slowly. 

“I’ll have to admit it.” 

“Why, he’s with her now,” she laughed. 
“That’s why I stayed at home to-day.” 

Monte held his breath for a second, and then 
he said : — 

“You mean, the woman Peter loves is — is 
Marjory Stockton?” 

“No other. I thought he must have told you. 
If not, I thought you must have guessed it from 
her.” 

“Why, no,” he admitted; “I did n’t.” 

“Then you’ve had your eyes closed.” 

“That’s it,” he nodded; “I’ve had my eyes 
closed. Why, that explains a lot of things.” 

Impulsively the girl placed her hand on Monte’s 
arm. 

“As an old friend of hers, you’ll use your influ- 
ence to help Peter?” 

“I’ll do what I can.” 

“Then I’m so glad I told you.” 

“Yes,” agreed Monte. “I suppose it is just 
as well for me to knov/.” 


CHAPTER XX 

PAYING LIKE A MAN 

Everything considered, Monte should have been 
glad at the revelation Beatrice made to him. If 
Peter were in love with Marjory and she with 
Peter — why, it solved his own problem, by the 
simple process of elimination, neatly and with 
despatch. All that remained for him to do was to 
remove himself from the awkward triangle as soon 
as possible. He must leave Marjory free, and Peter 
would look after the rest. No doubt a divorce on 
the grounds of desertion could be easily arranged; 
and thus, by that one stroke, they two would be 
made happy, and he — well, what the devil was 
to become of him ? 

The answer was obvious. It did not matter a 
picayune to any one what became of him. What 
had he ever done to make his life worth while to 
any one 1 He had never done any particular harm, 
that was true; but neither had he done any partic- 
ular good. It is the positive things that count, 
when a man stands before the judgment-seat; and 
that is where Monte stood on the night Marjory 
came back from Cannes by the side of Peter, with 
her eyes sparkling and her cheeks flushed as if she 
had come straight from Eden. 

They all dined together, and Monte grubbed 


PAYING LIKE A MAN 201 


hungrily for every look she vouchsafed him, for 
every word she tossed him. She had been more 
than ordinarily vivacious, spurred on partly by 
Beatrice and partly by Peter. Monte had felt 
himself merely an onlooker. That, in fact, was 
all he was. That was all he had been his whole 
life. 

He dodged Peter this evening to escape their 
usual after-dinner talk, and went to his room. 
He was there now, with his face white and tense. 

He had been densely stupid from the first, as 
Beatrice had informed him. Any man of the world 
ought to have suspected something when, at the 
first sight of Peter, she ran away. She had never 
run from him. Women run only when there is 
danger of capture, and she had nothing to fear 
from him in that way. She was safe with him. She 
dared even come with him to escape those from 
whom there might be some possible danger. Until 
now he had been rather proud of this — as if it 
were some honor. She had trusted him as she 
would not trust other men. It had made him 
throw back his shoulders — dense fool that he 
was! 

She had trusted him because she did not fear 
him; she did not fear him because there was 
nothing in him to fear. It was not that he was 
more decent than other men: it was merely be- 
cause he was less of a man. Why, she had run 
even from Peter — good, honest, conscientious 
Peter, with the heart and the soul and the nerve 


202 


THE TRIFLERS 


of a man. Peter had sent her scurrying before him 
because of the great love he dared to have for her. 
Peter challenged her to take up life with him — 
to buck New York with him. This was after he 
had waded in himself with naked fists, man- 
fashion. That was what gave Peter his right. 
That right was what she feared. 

Monte had a grandfather who in forty-nine 
crossed the plains. A picture of him hung in the 
Covington house in Philadelphia. The painting 
revealed steel-gray eyes and, even below the beard 
of respectability, a mouth that in many ways was 
like Peter’s. Montague Sears Covington — that 
was his name; the name that had been handed 
down to Monte. The man had shouldered a rifie, 
fought his way across deserts and over mountain 
paths, had risked his life a dozen times a day to 
reach the unknown El Dorado of the West. He 
had done this partly for a woman — a slip of a 
girl in New York whom he left behind to wait for 
him, though she begged to go. That was Monte’s 
grandmother. 

Monte, in spite of his ancestry, had jogged 
along, dodging the responsibilities — the respon- 
sibilities that Peter Noyes rushed forward to meet. 
He had ducked even love, even fatherhood. Like 
any quitter on the gridiron, instead of tackling 
low and hard, he had side-stepped. He had seen 
Chic in agony, and because of that had taken the 
next boat for Marseilles. He had turned tail and 
run. He had seen Teddy, and had run to what he 


PAYING LIKE A MAN 203 

thought was safe cover. If he paid the cost after 
that, whose the fault? The least he could do now 
was to pay the cost like a man. 

Here was the salient necessity — to pay the 
cost like a man. There must be no whining, no 
regretting, no side-stepping this time. He must 
make her free by surrendering all his own rights, 
privileges, and title. He must turn her over to 
Peter, who had played the game. He must do 
more. He must see that she went to Peter. He 
must accomplish something positive this time. 

Beatrice had asked him to use his influence. It 
was slight, pitifully slight, but he must do what 
he could. He must plan for them, deliberately, 
more such opportunities as this one he had planned 
for them unconsciously to-day. He must give 
them' more chances to be together. He had looked 
forward to having breakfast with her in the morn- 
ing. He must give up that. He must keep himself 
in the background while he was here, and then, at 
the right moment, get out altogether. 

Technically, he must desert her. He must make 
that supreme sacrifice. At the moment when he 
stood ready to challenge the world for her — at 
the moment when his heart within him burned to 
face for her all the dangers from which he had 
run — at that point he must relinquish even this 
privilege, and with smiling lips pose before the 
world and before her as a quitter. He must not 
even use the deserter’s prerogative of running. He 
must leave her cheerfully and jauntily — as the 


204 the TRIFLERS 

care-free ass known to her and to the world as 
just Monte. 

The scorn of those words stung him white with 
helpless passion. She had wished him always to be 
just Monte, because she thought that was the 
best there was in him. As such he was at least 
harmless — a good-natured chump to be trusted 
to do no harm, if he did no good. The grandson 
of the Covington who had faced thirst and hunger 
and sudden death for his woman, who had won 
for her a fortune fighting against other strong men, 
the grandson of a man who had tackled life like a 
man, must sacrifice his one chance to allow this 
ancestor to know his own as a man. He could 
have met him chin up with Madame Covington 
on his arm. He had that chance once. 

How ever had he missed it? He sat there with 
his fists clenched between his knees, asking him- 
self the question over and over again. He had 
known her for over a decade. As a school-girl he 
had seen her at Chic’s, and now ten years later he 
saw that even then she had within her all that she 
now had. That clear, white forehead had been 
there then; the black arched brows, the thin, 
straight nose, and the mobile lips. He caught his 
breath as he thought of those lips. Her eyes, too 
— but no, a change had taken place there. He 
had always thought of her eyes as cold — as im- 
penetrable. They were not that now. Once or 
twice he thought he had seen into them a little 
way. Once or twice he thought he had glimpsed 


PAYING LIKE A MAN 205 

gentle, fluttering figures in them. Once or twice 
they had been like windows in a long-closed house, 
suddenly flung open upon warm rooms filled with 
flowers. It made him dizzy now to remember 
those moments. 

He paced his room. In another week or two, if ‘ 
he had kept on, — if Peter had not come, — he 
might have been admitted farther into that house. 
He squared his shoulders. If he fought for his own 
even now — if, man against man, he challenged 
Peter for her — he might have a fighting chance. 
Was not that his right? In New York, in the 
world outside New York, that was the law : a hard 
fight — the best man to win. In war, favors 
might be shown; but in life, with a man’s own at 
stake, it was every one for himself. Peter himself 
would agree to that. He was not one to ask 
favors. A fair fight was all he demanded. Then 
let it be a clean, fair fight with bare knuckles to a 
finish. Let him show himself to Marjory as the 
grandson of the man who gave him his name; let 
him press his claims. 

He was ready now to face the world with her. 
He was eager to do that. Neither heights nor 
depths held any terrors for him. He envied Chic 
— he envied even poor mad Hamilton. 

Suddenly he saw a great truth. There is no dif- 
ference between the heights and the depths to 
those who are playing the game. It is only those 
who sit in the grand-stand who see the difference. 
He ought to have known that. The hard throws, 


2o6 


THE TRIFLERS 


the stinging tackles that used to bring the grand- 
stand to its feet, he never felt. The players knew 
something that those upon the seats did not know, 
and thrilled with a keener joy than the onlookers 
dreamed of. 

If he could only be given another chance to 
do something for Marjory — something that 
would bite into him, something that would twist 
his body and maul him ! If he could not face some 
serious physical danger for her, then some great 
sacrifice — 

Which was precisely the opportunity now of- 
fered. He had been considering this sacrifice 
from his own personal point of view. He had 
looked upon it as merely a personal punishment. 
But, after all, it was for her. It was for her alone. 
Peter played no part in it whatever. Neither did 
he himself. It was for her — for her! 

Monte set his jaws. If, through Peter, he could 
bring her happiness, then that was all the reward 
he could ask. Here was a man who loved her, 
who would be good to her and fight hard for her. 
He was just the sort of man he could trust her to. 
If he could see them settled in New York, as Chic 
and Mrs. Chic were settled, see them start the 
brave adventure, then he would have accom- 
plished more than he had ever been able to ac- 
complish so far. 

There was no need of thinking beyond that 
point. What became of his life after that did not 
matter in the slightest. Wherever he was, he 


PAYING LIKE A MAN 


207 

would always know that she was where she be- 
longed, and that was enough. He must hold fast 
to that thought. 

A knock at his door made him turn on his heels. 

‘‘Who’s that?” he demanded. 

“It’s I — Noyes,” came the answer. “Have 
you gone to bed yet?” 

Monte swung open the door. 

“Come in,” he said. 

“I thought I’d like to talk with you, if it is n’t 
too late,” explained Peter nervously. 

“On the contrary, you could n’t have come 
more opportunely. I was just thinking about 
you.” 

He led Peter to a chair. 

“Sit down and make yourself comfortable.” 

Monte lighted a cigarette, sank into a near-by 
chair, and waited. 

“Beatrice said she told you,” began Peter. 

“She did,” answered Monte; “I’d congratu- 
late you if it would n’t be so manifestly superflu- 
ous.” 

“ I did n’t realize she was an old friend of yours.” 

“I’ve known her for ten years,” said Monte. 

“It’s wonderful to have known her as long as 
that. I envy you.” 

“That’s strange, because I almost envy you.” 

Peter laughed. 

“ I have a notion I ’d be worried if you were n’t 
already married, Covington.” 

“Worried?” 


2o8 


THE TRIFLERS 


‘‘I think Mrs. Covington must be a good deal 
like Marjory.” 

‘‘ She is,” admitted Monte. 

‘‘So, if I had n’t been lucky enough to find you 
already suited, you might have given me a race.” 

“You forget that the ladies themselves have 
some voice in such matters,” Monte replied 
slowly. 

“ I have better reasons than you for not forget- 
ting that,” answered Peter. 

Monte started. 

“I was n’t thinking of you,” he put in quickly. 
“Besides, you did n’t give Marjory a fair chance. 
Her aunt had just died, and she — well, she has 
learned a lot since then.” 

“She has changed!” exclaimed Peter. “I no- 
ticed it at once; but I was almost afraid to believe 
it. She seems steadier — more serious.” 

“Yes.” 

“You’ve seen a good deal of her recently?” 

“For the last two or three weeks,” answered 
Monte. 

“You don’t mind my talking to you about 
her?” 

“Not at all.” 

“As you’re an old friend of hers, I feel as if I 
had the right.” 

“Go ahead.” 

“ It seems to me as if she had suddenly grown 
from a girl to a woman. I saw the woman in her 
all the time. It — it was to her I spoke before. 


PAYING LIKE A MAN 209 

Maybe, as you said, the woman was n’t quite 
ready.” 

‘‘Pm sure of it.” 

‘‘You speak with conviction.” 

“As I told you, Pve come to know her better 
these last few weeks than ever before. I Ve had a 
chance to study her. She’s had a chance, too, to 
study — other men. There’s been one in par- 
ticular — ” 

Peter straightened a bit. 

“One in particular?” he demanded aggres- 
sively. 

“No one you need fear,” replied Monte. “In 
a way, it’s because of him that your own chances 
have improved.” 

“How?” 

“It has given her an opportunity to compare 
him with you.” 

“Are you at liberty to tell me about him?” 

“Yes; I think I have that right,” replied Monte. 
“I’ll not be violating any confidences, because 
what I know about him I know from the man 
himself. Furthermore, it was I who introduced 
him to her.” 

“Oh — a friend of yours.” 

“Not a friend, exactly; an acquaintance of long 
standing would be more accurate. I’ve been in 
touch with him all my life, but it’s only lately 
I’ve felt that I was really getting to know 
him.” 

“Is he here in Nice now?” inquired Peter. 


210 


THE TRIFLERS 


‘‘No,” answered Monte slowly. “He went 
away a little while ago. He went suddenly — God 
knows where. I don’t think he will ever come 
back.” 

“You can’t help pitying the poor devil if he was 
fond of her,” said Peter. 

“But he was n’t good enough for her. It was 
his own fault too, so he is n’t deserving even of 
pity.” 

“Probably that makes it all the harder. What 
was the matter with him?” 

“He was one of the kind we spoke of the other 
night — the kind who always sits in the grand- 
stand instead of getting into the game.” 

“Pardon me if I ’m wrong, but — I thought you 
spoke rather sympathetically of that kind the 
other night.” 

“I was probably reflecting his views,” Monte 
parried. 

“That accounts for it,” returned Peter. “ Some- 
how, it did n’t sound consistent in you. I wish I 
could see your face, Covington.” 

“We’re sitting in the dark here,” answered 
Monte. 

“Go on.” 

“Marjory liked this fellow well enough because 
— well, because he looked more or less like a man. 
He was big physically, and all that. Besides, his 
ancestors were all men, and I suppose they handed 
down something.” 

“What was his name?” 


PAYING LIKE A MAN 211 


I think I ’d rather not tell you that. It’s of no 
importance. This is all strictly in confidence.” 

“I understand.” 

“So she let herself see a good deal of him. He 
was able to amuse her. That kind of fellow gen- 
erally can entertain a woman. In fact, that is 
about all they are good for. When it comes down 
to the big things, there is n’t much there. They 
are well enough for the holidays, and I guess that 
was all she was thinking about. She had had a 
hard time, and wanted amusement. Maybe she 
fancied that was all she ever wanted; but — well, 
there was more in her than she knew herself.” 

“A thousand times more!” exclaimed Peter. 

“ She found it out. Perhaps, after all, this fellow 
served his purpose in helping her to realize that.” 

“Perhaps.” 

“So, after that, he left.” 

“And he cared for her?” 

“Yes.” 

“Poor devil!” 

“I don’t know,” mused Monte. “He seemed, 
on the whole, rather glad that he had been able 
to do that much for her.” 

“ I ’d like to meet that man some day. I have a 
notion there is more in him than you give him 
credit for, Covington.” 

“I doubt it.” 

“A man who would give up her — ” 

“ She ’s the sort of woman a man would want to 
do his level best for,” broke in Monte. “If that 


212 


THE TRIFLERS 


meant giving her up, — if the fellow felt he was n’t 
big enough for her, — then he could n’t do any- 
thing else, could he?” 

‘‘The kind big enough to consider that would 
be big enough for her,” declared Peter. 

Monte drew a quick breath. 

“Do you mind repeating that?” 

“I say the man really loving her who would 
make such a sacrifice comes pretty close to me as- 
uring up to her standard.” 

“I think he would like to hear that. You see, 
it’s the first real sacrifice he ever undertook.” 

“It may be the making of him.” 

“Perhaps.” 

“He’ll always have her before him as an ideah 
When you come in touch with such a woman as 
she — you can’t lose, Covington, no matter how 
things turn out.” 

“I’ll tell him that too.” 

“It’s what I tell myself over and over again. 
To-day — well, I had an idea there must be some 
one in the background of her life I did n’t know 
about.” 

“You’d better get that out of your head. This 
man is n’t even in the background, Noyes.” 

“ I ’m not so sure. I thought she seemed worried. 
I tried to make her tell me, but she only laughed. 
She’d face death with a smile, that woman. I got 
to thinking about it in my room, and that’s why 
I came down here to you. You’ve seen more of 
her these last few months than I have.” 


PAYING LIKE A MAN 


213 


‘‘Not months; only weeks.” 

“ And this other — I don’t want to pry into her 
affairs, but we’re all just looking to her happiness, 
are n’t we ? ” 

“Consider this other man as dead and gone,” 
cut in Monte. “He was lucky to be able to play 
the small part in her life that he did play.” 

“But something is disturbing her. I know her 
voice; I know her laugh. If I did n’t have those to 
go by, there ’d be something else. I csin feel when 
she’s herself and when she is n’t.” 

Monte grasped his chair arms. He had studied 
her closely the last few days, and had not been 
able to detect the fact that she was worried. He 
had thought her gayer, more light-hearted, than 
usual. It was so that she had held herself before 
him. If Peter was right, — and Monte did not 
doubt the man’s superior intuition, — then obvi- 
ously she was worrying over the technicality that 
still held her a prisoner. Until she was actually 
free she would live up to the letter of her contract. 
This would naturally tend to strain her inter- 
course with Peter. She was not one to take such 
things lightly. 

Monte rose, crossed the room, and placed his 
hand on Peter’s shoulder. 

“I think I can assure you,” he said slowly, 
“ that if there is anything bothering her now, it is 
nothing that will last. All you ’ve got to do is to 
be patient and hold on.” 

“You seem to be mighty confident.” 


214 


THE TRIFLERS 


“If you knew what I know, you’d be confident 
too.” 

Peter frowned. 

“I don’t like discussing these things, but — 
they mean so much.” 

“ So much to all of us,” nodded Monte. “Now, 
the thing to do is to turn in and get a good night’s 
sleep. After all, there is something in keeping 
normal.” 


CHAPTER XXI 


BACK TO SCHEDULE 

Monte rose the next morning to find the skies 
leaden and a light, drizzling rain falling that 
promised to continue all day. It was the sort 
of weather that ordinarily left him quite helpless, 
because, not caring for either bridge or billiards, 
nothing remained but to pace the hotel piazza — 
an amusement that under the most favorable con- 
ditions has its limitations. But to-day — even 
though the rain had further interfered with his 
arrangements by making it necessary to cancel 
the trip he had planned for Marjory and Peter 
to Cannes — the weather was an inconsequen- 
tial incident. It did not matter greatly to him 
whether it rained or not. 

Not that he was depressed to indifference. 
Rather he was conscious of a certain nervous ex- 
citement akin to exhilaration that he had not felt 
since the days of the big games, when he used to 
get up with his blood tingling in heady anticipa- 
tion of the task before him. He took his plunge 
with hearty relish, and rubbed his body until it 
glowed with the Turkish towel. 

His arm was free of the sling now, and, though 
it was still a bit stiff, it was beginning to limber 
up nicely. In another week it would be as good as 


2i6 


THE TRIFLERS 


new, with only a slight scar left to serve as a re- 
minder of the episode that had led to so much. 
In time that too would disappear; and then — 
But he was not concerned with the future. That, 
any more than the weather, was no affair of his. 

This morning Marjory would perforce remain 
indoors, and so if he went to see her it was doubt- 
ful whether he would be interfering with any plans 
she might have made for Peter. An hour was all 
he needed — perhaps less. This would leave the 
two the remainder of the day free — and, after 
that, all the days to come. There would be hun- 
dreds of them — all the days of the summer, all 
the days of the fall, all the days of the winter, and 
all the days of the spring; then another summer, 
and so a new cycle full of days twenty-four hours 
long. 

Out of these he was going to take one niggardly 
hour. Nor was he asking that little for his own 
sake. Eager as he was — as he had been for two 
weeks — for the privilege of just being alone with 
her, he would have foregone that now, had it been 
possible to write her what he had to say. In a let- 
ter it is easy to leave unsaid so many things. But 
he must face her leaving the same things unsaid, 
because she was a woman who demanded that a 
man speak what he had to say man-fashion. He 
must do that, even though there would be little 
truth in his words. He must make her believe the 
lie. He cringed at the word. But, after all, it was 
the truth to her. That was what he must keep 


BACK TO SCHEDULE 


217 

always in mind. He had only to help her keep her 
own conception. He was coming to her, not in 
his proper person, but as just Monte. As such he 
would be telling the truth. 

He shaved and dressed with some care. The 
rain beat against the window, and he did not hear 
it. He went down to breakfast and faced the va- 
cant chair which he had ordered to be left at his 
table. She had never sat there, though at every 
meal it stood ready for her. Peter suggested once 
that he join them at their table until madame re- 
turned; but Monte had shaken his head. 

Monte did not telephone her until ten, and then 
he asked simply if he might come over for an hour. 

‘‘Certainly,” she answered: “I shall be glad to 
see you. It’s a miserable day, Monte.” 

“It’s raining a bit, but I don’t mind.” 

“That’s because you’re so good-natured.” 

He frowned. It was a privilege he had over the 
telephone. 

“Anyhow, what you can’t help you may as well 
grin and bear.” 

“I suppose so, Monte,” she answered. “But if 
I ’m to grin, I must depend upon you to make me.” 

“I’ll be over in five minutes,” he replied. 

She needed him to make her grin ! That was all 
he was good for. Thank Heaven, he had it in his 
power to do this much ; as soon as he told her she 
was to be free again, the smile would return to 
her lips. 

He went at once to the hotel, and she came 


2I8 


THE TRIFLERS 


down to meet him, looking very serious — and 
very beautiful. Her deep eyes seemed deeper than 
ever, perhaps because of a trace of dark below 
them. She had color, but it was bright crimson 
against a dead white. Her lips were more mobile 
than usual, as if she were having difficulty in 
controlling them — as if many unspoken things 
were struggling there for expression. 

When he took her warm hand, she raised her 
head a little, half closing her eyes. It was clear 
that she was worrying more than even he had sus- 
pected. Poor little woman, her conscience was 
probably harrying the life out of her. This must 
not be. 

They went upstairs to the damp, desolate sun 
parlor, and he undertook at once the business in 
hand. 

‘Ht has n’t worked very well, has it, Marjory?” 
he began, with a forced smile. 

Turning aside her head, she answered in a voice 
scarcely above a whisper : — 

‘‘No, Monte.” 

“But,” he went on, “there’s no sense in getting 
stirred up about that.” 

“It was such a — a hideous mistake,” she said. 

“That’s where you’re wrong,” he declared. 
“We’ve tried a little experiment, and it failed. 
Is n’t that all there is to it?” 

“All?” 

“Absolutely all,” he replied. “What we did n’t 
reckon with was running across old friends who 


BACK TO SCHEDULE 


219 

would take the adventure so seriously. If we’d 
only gone to Central Africa or Asia Minor — ” 

“ It would have been just the same if we’d gone 
to the North Pole,” she broke in. 

‘‘You think so?” 

“ I know it. Women can’t trifle with — with 
such things without getting hurt.” 

“I’m sorry. I suppose I should have known.” 

“You were just trying to be kind, Monte,” she 
answered. “Don’t take any of the blame. It’s all 
mine.” 

“I urged you.” 

“What of that?” she demanded. “It was for 
me to come or not to come. That is one part of 
her life over which a woman has absolute control. 
I came because I was so utterly selfish I did not 
realize what I was doing.” 

“And I?” he asked quickly. 

“You?” 

She turned and tried to meet his honest eyes. 

“I’m afraid I’ve spoiled your holiday,” she 
murmured. 

He clinched his jaws against the words that 
surged to his lips. 

“If we could leave those last few weeks just as 
they were — ” he said. “Can’t we call that evening 
I met you in Paris the beginning, and the day we 
reached Nice the end?” 

“Only there is no end,” she cried. 

“Let the day we reached the Hotel des Roses be 
the end. I should like to go away feeling that the 


220 


THE TRIFLERS 


whole incident up to then was something detached 
from the rest of our lives.’’ 

“You’re going — where?” she gasped. 

He tried to smile. 

“I’ll have to pick up my schedule again.” 

“You ’re going — when ? ” 

“In a day or two now,” he replied. “You see — 
it’s necessary for me to desert you.” 

“Monte!” 

“The law demands the matter of six months’ 
absence — perhaps a little longer. I ’ll have this 
looked up and will notify you. Desertion is an 
ugly word; but, after all, it sounds better than 
cruel and abusive treatment.” 

“It’s I who deserted,” she said. 

He waved the argument aside. 

“Anyway, it’s only a technicality. The point 
is that I must show the world that — that we 
did not mean what we said. So I ’ll go on to Eng- 
land.” 

“And play golf,” she added for him. 

He nodded. 

“ I ’ll probably put up a punk game. Never was 
much good at golf. But it will help get me back 
into the rut. Then I ’ll sail about the first of Au- 
gust for New York and put a few weeks into 
camp.” 

“Then you’ll go on to Cambridge.” 

“And hang around until after the Yale game.” 

“Then—” 

“How many months have I been gone already ? ” 


BACK TO SCHEDULE 


221 


‘‘Four.” 

“Oh, yes; then I’ll go back to New York.” 

“What will you do there, Monte?” 

“I — I don’t know. Maybe I’ll call on Chic 
some day;” 

“If they should ever learn!” cried Marjory. 
“Eh?” 

Monte passed his hand over his forehead. 

“There is n’t any danger of that, is there?” 

“I don’t think I’ll ever dare meet her again.” 

Monte squared his shoulders. 

“See here, little woman; you must n’t feel this 
way. It won’t do at all. That’s why I thought if 
you could only separate these last few weeks from 
everything else — just put them one side and go 
from there — it would be so much better. You 
see, we’ve got to go on and — holy smoke! this 
has got to be as if it never happened. You have 
your life ahead of you and I have mine. We can’t 
let this spoil all the years ahead. You — why, 
you — ” 

She looked up. It was a wonder he did not take 
her in his arms in that moment. He held himself 
as he had once held himself when eleven men were 
trying to push him and his fellows over the last 
three yards separating them from a goal. 

“It’s necessary to go on, is n’t it?” he repeated 
helplessly. 

“Yes, yes,” she answered quickly. “You must 
go back to your schedule just as soon as ever you 
can. As soon as we’re over the ugly part — ” 


222 


THE TRIFLERS 


“The divorce?” 

“As soon as we’re over that, everything will be 
all right again,” she nodded. 

“Surely,” he agreed. 

“But we must n’t remember anything. That’s 
quite impossible. The thing to do is to forget.” 

She appeared so earnest that he hastened to 
reassure her. 

“Then we’ll forget.” 

He said it so cheerfully, she was ready to believe 
him. 

“That ought to be easy for you,” he added. 

“For me?” 

“ I ’m going to leave you with Peter.” 

She caught her breath. She did not dare 
answer. 

“I’ve seen a good deal of him lately,” he con- 
tinued. “We’ve come to know each other rather 
intimately, as sometimes men do in a short while 
when they have interests in common.” 

“You and Peter have interests in common!” 
she exclaimed. 

He appeared uneasy. 

“We’re both Harvard, you know.” 

“I see.” 

“Of course, I ’ve had to do more or less hedging 
on account — of Madame Covington.” 

“I’m sorry, Monte.” 

“You need n’t be, because it was she who intro- 
duced me to him. And, I tell you, he’s fine and big 
and worth while all through. But you know that.” 


BACK TO SCHEDULE 


223 


‘‘Yes.’’ 

“That’s why I’m going to feel quite safe about 
leaving you with him.” 

She started. That word “safe” was like a stab 
with a penknife. She would have rather had him 
strike her a full blow in the face than use it. Yet, 
in its miserable fashion, it expressed all that he 
had sought through her — all that she had allowed 
him to seek. From the first they had each sought 
safety, because they did not dare face the big 
things. 

Now, at the moment she was ready, the same 
weakness that she had encouraged in him was 
helping take him away from her. And the pitiful 
tragedy of it was that Peter was helping too, and 
then challenging her to accept still graver dangers 
through him. It was a pitiful tangle, and yet one 
that she must allow to continue. 

“You mean he’ll help you not to worry about 
me.^” 

“That’s it,” he nodded. “Because I’ve seen 
the man side of him, and it’s even finer than the 
side you see.” 

Her lips came together. 

“There’s no reason why you should feel re- 
sponsibility for me even without Peter,” she 
protested. 

She was seated in one of the wicker chairs, chin 
in hand. He stepped toward her. 

“You don’t think I’d be cad enough to desert 
my wife actually?” he demanded. 


THE TRIFLERS 


224 

He seemed so much in earnest that for a second 
the color flushed the chalk-white portions of her 
cheeks. 

‘‘Sit down, Monte,” she pleaded. “I — I did 
n’t expect you to take it like that. I ’m afraid Peter 
is making you too serious. After all, you know, 
I ’m of age. I ’m not a child.” 

He sat down, bending toward her. 

“WeVe both acted more or less like children,” 
he said gently. “Now I guess the time has come 
for us to grow up. Peter will help you do that.” 

“And you?” 

“He has helped me already. And when he gets 
his eyes back — ” 

“You think there is a chance for that?” 

“Just one chance,” he answered. 

“Ohl” she cried. 

“It’s a big opportunity,” he said. 

She rose and went to the window, where she 
looked out upon the gray ocean and the slanting 
rain and a world grown dull and sodden. He fol- 
lowed her there, but with his shoulders erect 
now. 

“ I ’m going now,” he said. “ I think I shall take 
the night train for Paris. I want to leave the ma- 
chine — the machine we came down here in — 
for you.” 

“Don’t — please don’t.” 

“ It ’s for you and Peter. The thing for you both 
to do is to get out in it every day.” 

“I — I don’t want to.” 


BACK TO SCHEDULE 


225 


‘‘You mean—” 

He placed his hand upon her arm, and she ven- 
tured one more look into his eyes. He was frown- 
ing. She must not allow that. She must send 
him away in good spirits. That was the least she 
could do. So she forced a smile. 

“All right,” she promised; “if it will make you 
more comfortable.” 

“ It would worry me a lot if I thought you were 
n’t going to be happy.” 

“I’ll go out every fair day.” 

“That’s fine.” 

He took a card from his pocket and scribbled his 
banker’s address upon it. 

“If anything should come up where — where 
I can be of any use, you can always reach me 
through this address.” 

She took the card. Even to the end he was 
good — good and four-square. He was so good 
that her throat ached. She could not endure this 
very much longer. He extended his hand. 

“S’ long and good luck,” he said. 

“I — I hope your golf will be better than you 
think.” 

Then he said a peculiar thing. He seldom swore, 
and seldom lost his head as completely as he did 
that second. But, looking her full in the eyes, he 
ejaculated below his breath : — 

“Damn golf!” 

The observation was utterly irrelevant. Turn- 
ing, he clicked his heels together like a soldier and 


226 


THE TRIFLERS 


went out. The door closed behind him. For a 
second her face was illumined as with a great joy. 
In a sort of ecstasy, she repeated his words. 

‘‘He said,” she whispered — “he said, ‘Damn 
golf.’ ” Then she threw herself into a wicker chair 
and began to sob. 

“Oh!” she choked. “If— if— ” 


CHAPTER XXII 


A CONFESSION 

Monte left Nice on the twentieth of July, to join 
— as Peter supposed — Madame Covington in 
Paris. Monte himself had been extremely am- 
biguous about his destination, being sure of only 
one fact : that he should not return inside of a year, 
if he did then. Peter had asked for his address, 
and Monte had given him the same address that 
he gave Marjory. 

“I want to keep in touch with you,” Peter said. 

Peter missed the man. On the ride with Mar- 
jory that he enjoyed the next day after Monte’s 
departure, he talked a great deal of him. 

“ I ’d like to have seen into his eyes,” he told her. 
‘‘ I kept feeling I ’d find something there more than 
I got hold of in his voice and the grip of his hand.” 

“He has blue eyes,” she told him, “and they 
are clean as a child’s.” 

“They are a bit sad?” 

“Monte’s eyes sad?” she exclaimed. “What 
made you think so?” 

“Perhaps because, from what he let drop the 
other night, I gathered he was n’t altogether 
happy with Mrs. Covington.” 

“He told you that?” 

“No; not directly,” he assured her. “He’s too 


228 


THE TRIFLERS 


loyal. I may be utterly mistaken; only he was 
rather vague as to why she was not here with 
him.” 

‘^She was not with him,” Marjory answered 
slowly. ‘‘ She was not with him because she was 
n’t big enough to deserve him.” 

“Then it’s a fact there’s a tragedy in his life?” 

“Not in his — in hers,” she answered passion- 
ately. 

“How can that be?” 

“Because she’s the one who realizes the truth.” 

“But she’s the one who went away.” 

“Because of that. It’s a miserable story, Peter.” 

“You knew her intimately?” 

“A great many years.” 

“I think Covington said he had known you a 
long time.” 

“Yes.” 

“Then, knowing her and knowing him, was n’t 
there anything you could do?” 

“I did what I could,” she answered wearily. 

“Perhaps that explains why he hurried back 
to her.” 

“He has n’t gone to her. He’ll never go back 
to her. She deserted him, and now — he’s going 
to make it permanent.” 

“A divorce?” 

“Yes, Peter,” she answered, with a little shiver. 

“You’re taking it hard.” 

“I know all that he means to her,” she choked. 

“She loves him?” 


A CONFESSION 


229 


‘‘With all her heart and soul.” 

“And he does n’t know it.^” 

“Why, he would n’t believe it — if she told 
him. She can never let him know it. She’d deny 
it if he asked her. She loves him enough for that.” 

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Peter. “There’s a 
mistake there somewhere.” 

“The mistake came first,” she ran on. “Oh, 
I don’t know why I’m telling you these things, 
except that it is a relief to tell them to some one.” 

“Tell me all about it,” he encouraged her. “I 
knew there was something on your mind.” 

“Peter,” she said earnestly, “can you imagine 
a woman so selfish that she wanted to marry just 
to escape the responsibilities of marriage?” 

“ It is n’t possible,” he declared. 

Her cheeks were a vivid scarlet. Had he been 
able to see them, she could not have gone on. 

“A woman so selfish,” she faltered ahead, 
“that she preferred a make-believe husband to a 
real husband, because — because so she thought 
she would be left free.” 

“Free for what?” he demanded. 

“To live.” 

“When love and marriage and children are all 
there is to life?” he asked. 

She caught her breath. 

“You see, she did not know that then. She 
thought all those things called for the sacrifice of 
her freedom.” 

“What freedom?” he demanded again. “It’s 


THE TRIFLERS 


230 

when we’re alone that we’re slaves — slaves to 
ourselves. A woman alone, a man alone, living to 
himself alone — what is there for him? He can 
only go around and around in a pitifully small 
circle — a circle that grows smaller and smaller 
with every year. Between twenty and thirty a 
man can exhaust all there is in life for himself 
alone. He has eaten and slept and traveled and 
played until his senses have become dull. Per- 
haps a woman lasts a little longer, but not much 
longer. Then they are locked away in them- 
selves until they die.” 

‘‘Peter!” she cried in terror. 

“It’s only as we live in others that we live for- 
ever,” he ran on. “It is only by toiling and sacri- 
ficing and suffering and loving that we become 
immortal. It is so we acquire real freedom.” 

“Yes, Peter,” she agreed, with a gasp. 

“Could n’t you make her understand that?” 

“She does understand. That’s the pity of it.” 

“And Covington?” 

“It’s in him to understand; only — she lost the 
right to make him understand. She — she debased 
herself. So she must sacrifice herself to get clean 
again. She must make even greater sacrifices 
than any she cowed away from. She must do this 
without any of the compensations that come to 
those who have been honest and unafraid.” 

“What of him?” 

“He must never know. He’ll go round and 
round his little circle, and she must watch him.” 


A CONFESSION 


231 

^‘It’s terrible,” he murmured. “It will be terri- 
ble for her to watch him do that. If you had told 
him how she felt — ” 

“God forbid!” 

“Or if you had only told me, so that I could 
have told him — ” 

She seized Peter’s arm. 

“You would n’t have dared!” 

“I’d dare anything to save two people from 
such torment.” 

“You — you don’t think he will worry?” 

“I think he is worrying a great deal.” 

“Only for the moment,” she broke in. “But 
soon — in a week or two — he will be quite him- 
self again. He has a great many things to do. He 
has tennis and — and golf.” 

She checked herself abruptly. (“Damn golf!” 
Monte had said.) 

“There’s too much of a man in him now to be 
satisfied with such things,” said Peter. “It’s a 
pity — it’s a pity there are not two of you. Mar- 
jory.” 

“Of me?” 

“He thinks a great deal of you. If he had met 
you before he met this other — ” 

“What are you saying, Peter?” 

“That you’re the sort of woman who could 
have called out in him an honest love.” 

There, beside Peter who could not see, Marjory 
bent low and buried her face in her hands. 

“You’re the sort of woman,” he went on, “who 


232 


THE TRIFLERS 


could have roused the man in him that has 
been waiting all this time for some one like 
you.” 

How Peter was hurting her! How he was pinch- 
ing her with red-hot irons 1 It hurt so much that 
she was glad. Here, at last, she was beginning her 
sacrifice for Monte. So she made neither moan nor 
groan, nor covered her ears, but took her punish- 
ment like a man. 

Some one else must do all that,” she said. 

^‘Yes,” he answered. ‘^Or his life will be 
wasted. He needs to suffer. He needs to give up. 
This thing we call a tragedy may be the making 
of him.” 

“For some one else,” she repeated. 

Peter was fumbling about for her hand. Sud- 
denly she straightened herself. 

“It must be for some one else,” he said hoarsely 
— “because I want you for myself. In time — 
you must be mine. With the experience of those 
two before us, we must n’t make the same mis- 
take ourselves. I — I was n’t going to tell you 
this until I had my eyes back. But, heart o’ mine, 
I ’ve held in so long. Here in the dark one gets so 
much alone. And being alone is what kills.” 

She was hiding her hand from him. 

“I can’t find your hand,” he whispered, like a 
child lost in the dark. 

Summoning all her strength, she placed her 
hand within his. “It is cold!” he cried. 

Yet the day was warm. They were speeding 


A CONFESSION 


233 

through a sunllghted country of olive trees and 
flowers in bloom — a warm world and tender. 

He drew her fingers to his lips and kissed them 
passionately. She suffered it, closing her eyes 
against the pain. 

“IVe wanted you so all these months!” he 
cried. “I should n’t have let you go in the first 
place. I should n’t have let you go.” 

‘‘No, Peter,” she answered. 

“And now that I’ve found you again, you’ll 
stay?” 

He was lifting his face to hers — straining to see 
her. To have answered any way but as he pleaded 
would have been to strike that upturned face. 

“I — I’ll try to stay,” she faltered. 

“I’ll make you!” he breathed. “I’ll hold you 
tight, soul of mine. Would you — would you 
kiss my eyes ? ” 

Holding her breath, Marjory lightly brushed 
each of his eyes with her lips. 

“ It ’s like balm,” he whispered. “ I ’ve dreamed 
at night of this.” 

“Every day I ’ll do it,” she said. “Only — for 
a little while — you’ll not ask for anything more, 
Peter?” 

“Not until some day they open — in answer to 
that call,” he replied. 

“I did n’t mean that, Peter,” she said hurriedly. 
“Only I’m so mixed up myself.” 

“It’s so new to you,” he nodded. “To me it’s 
like a day foreseen a dozen years. Long before I 


THE TRIFLERS 


234 

saw you I knew I was getting ready for you. Now 
— what do a few weeks matter?’’ 

“It may be months, Peter, before I’m quite 
steady.” 

“Even if it’s years,” he exclaimed, “I’ve felt 
your lips.” 

“Only on your eyes,” she cried in terror. 

“I — I would n’t dare to feel them except on 
my eyes — for a little while. Even there they take 
away my breath.” 


CHAPTER XXIII 


LETTERS 

Letter from Peter Noyes to Monte Covington, 
received by the latter at the Hotel Normandie, 
Paris, France: — 


Nice, France, July 22. 

Dear Covington: — 

I don’t know whether you can make out this 
scrawl, because I have to feel my way across the 
paper; but I’m sitting alone in my room, aching to 
talk with you as we used to talk. If you were here I 
know you would be glad to listen, because — sud- 
denly all I told you about has come true. 

Riding to Cannes the very next day after you left, 
I spoke to her and — she listened. It was all rather 
vague and she made no promises, but she listened. 
In a few weeks or months or years, now, she’ll be 
mine for all time. She does n’t want me to tell Bea- 
trice, and there is no one else to tell except you — 
so forgive me, old man, if I let myself loose. 

Besides, in a way, you’re responsible. We were 
talking of you, because we missed you. You have a 
mighty good friend in her, Covington. She knows 
you — the real you that I thought only I had 
glimpsed. She sees the man in the game — not the 
man in the grand-stand. Her Covington is the man 
they used to give nine long Harvards for. I never 
heard that in front of my name. I was a grind — a 
“greasy grind,” they used to call me. It did n’t hurt, 
for I smiled in rather a superior sort of way at the 


THE TRIFLERS 


236 

men I thought were wasting their energy on the grid- 
iron. But, after all, you fellows got something out 
of it that the rest of us did n’t get. A ’Varsity man 
remains a ’Varsity man all his life. To-day you 
stand before her as a ’Varsity man. I think she 
always thinks of you as in a red sweater with a black 
‘‘H.” Any time that you feel you’re up against 
anything hard, that ought to help you. 

We talked a great deal of you, as I said, and I find 
myself now thinking more of you than of myself in 
connection with her. I don’t understand it. Per- 
haps it’s because she seems so alone in the world, 
and you are the most intimate friend she has. Per- 
haps it’s because you’ve seen so much more of her 
than I in these last few months. Anyway, I have a 
feeling that somehow you are an integral part of her. 
I ’ve tried to puzzle out the relationship, and I can’t. 
“Brother” does not define it; neither does “com- 
rade.” If you were not already married, I’d almost 
suspect her of being in love with you. 

I know that sounds absurd. I know it is absurd. 
She is n’t the kind to allow her emotions to get away 
from her like that. But I ’ll say this much, Coving- 
ton: that if we three were to start fresh, I’d stand a 
mighty poor chance with her. 

This is strange talk from a man who less than six 
hours ago became oificially engaged. I told her that 
I had let her go once, and that now I had found her 
again I wanted her to stay. And she said, “I’ll 
try.” That was n’t very much, Covington, was it.^ 
But I seized the implied promise as a drowning man 
does a straw. It was so much more than anything 
I have hoped for. 

I should have kept her that time I found her on 
the little farm in Connecticut. If I had been a little 
more insistent then, I think she would have come 
with me. But I was afraid of her money. It was 


LETTERS 


237 

rumored that her aunt left her a vast fortune, and 
— you know the mongrels that hound a girl in that 
position, Covington? I was afraid she might think 
I was one of the pack. She was frightened — be- 
wildered. I should have snatched her away from 
them all and gone off with her. I was earning 
enough to support her decently, and I should have 
thought of nothing else. Instead of that I held back 
a little, and so lost her, as I thought. She sailed 
away, and I returned to my work like a madman — 
and I nearly died. 

Now I feel alive clear to my finger-tips. I ’m going 
to get my eyes back. I have n’t the slightest doubt 
in theVorld about that. Already I feel the magic of 
the new balm that has been applied. They don’t 
ache any more. Sitting here to-night without my 
shade, I can hold them open and catch the feeble 
light that filters in from the street lamps at a dis- 
tance. It is only a question of a few months, perhaps 
weeks, perhaps days. The next time we meet I shall 
be able to see you. 

You won’t object to hearing a man rave a little, 
Covington? If you do, you can tear up this right 
here. But I know I can’t say anything good about 
Marjory that you won’t agree with. Maybe, how- 
ever, you’d call my present condition abnormal. 
Perhaps it is; but 1 wonder if it is n’t part of every 
normal man’s life to be abnormal to this extent at 
least once — to see, for once, this staid old world 
through the eyes of a prince of the ancient city of 
Bagdad ; to thrill with the magic and gorgeous beauty 
of it? It shows what might always be, if one were 
poet enough to sustain the mood. 

Here am I, a plugging lawyer of the Borough of 
Manhattan, City of New York, State of New 
York — which is just about as far away from the 
city of Bagdad as you can get. I’m concerned 


THE TRIFLERS 


238 

mainly with certain details of corporation law — 
the structure of soulless business institutions which 
were never heard of in Bagdad. My daily path 
takes me from certain uptown bachelor quarters 
through the subway to a certain niche in a down- 
town cave dwelling. Then — presto, she comes. I 
pass over all that intervened, because it is no longer 
important, but — presto again, I find myself here a 
prince in some royal castle of Bagdad, counting the 
moments until another day breaks and I can feel 
the touch of my princess’s hand. Even my dull eyes 
count for me, because so I can fancy myself, if I 
choose, in some royal apartment, surrounded by 
hanging curtains of silk, priceless marbles, and orna- 
ments of gold and silver, with many silent eunuchs 
awaiting my commands. From my windows I’m at 
liberty to imagine towers and minarets and domes of 
copper. 

Always she, my princess, is somewhere in the 
background, when she is not actually by my side. 
When I saw her before, Covington, I marveled at 
her eyes — those deep, wonderful eyes that told you 
so little and made you dream so much. I saw her 
hair too, and her straight nose, and her beautiful 
lips. Those things I see now as I saw them then. I 
must wait a little while really to see them again. In 
their place, however, I have now her voice and the 
sound of her footsteps. To hear her coming, just to 
hear the light fall of her feet upon the ground, is like 
music. 

But when she speaks, Covington, then all other 
sounds cease, and she speaks alone to me in a world 
grown silent to listen. There is some quality in that 
voice that gets into me — that reaches and vibrates 
certain hidden strings I did not know were there. 
So sweet is the music that I can hardly give enough 
attention to make out the meaning of her words. 


LETTERS 


239 

What she says does not so much matter as that she 
should be speaking to me — to my ears alone. 

And these things are merely the superficialities of 
her. There still remains the princess herself below 
these wonderful externals. There still remains the 
woman herself. Woman, any woman, is marvelous 
enough, Covington. When you think of all they 
stand for, the fineness of them compared with our 
man grossness, that wonderful power of creation in 
them, their exquisite delicacy, combined with the 
big-souled capacity for sacrifice and suffering that 
dwarfs any of our petty burdens into insignificance 
— God knows, a man should bow his knee before the 
least of them. But when to all those general attri- 
butes of the sex you add that something more born 
in a woman like Marjory — what in the world can a 
man do big enough to deserve the charge of such a 
soul ? In the midst of all my princely emotions, that 
thought makes me humble, Covington. 

I fear I have rambled a good deal, old man. I 
can’t read over what I have been scribbling here, so 
I must let it go as it is. But I wanted to tell you 
some of these things that are rushing through my 
head all the time, because I knew you would be glad 
for me and glad for her. Or does my own joy result 
in such supreme selfishness that I am tempted to 
intrude it upon others.? I don’t believe so, because 
there is no one else in the world to whom I would 
venture to write as I ’ve written to you. 

I’m not asking you to answer, because what I 
should want to hear from you I would n’t allow any 
one else to read. So tear this up and forget it if you 
want. Some day I shall meet you again and see you. 
Then I can talk to you face to face. 

Yours, 

Peter J. Noyes. 


THE TRIFLERS 


240 

Sitting alone in his room at the Normandie, 
Monte read this through. Then his hands dropped 
to his side and the letter fell from them to the 
floor. 

“Oh, my God!” he said. “Oh, my God!” 

Letter from Madame Covington to her hus- 
band, Monte Covington, which the latter never 
received at all because it was never sent. It was 
never meant to be sent. It was written merely to 
save herself from doing something rash, something 
for which she could never forgive herself — like 
taking the next train to Paris and claiming this 
man as if he were her own : — 

Dearest Prince of my Heart: — 

You’ve been gone from me twelve hours. For 
twelve hours you’ve left me here all alone. I don’t 
know how I ’ve lived. I don’t know how I ’m going 
to get through the night and to-morrow. Only there 
won’t be any to-morrow. There’ll never be any- 
thing more than periods of twelve hours, until you 
come back: just from dawn to dark, and then from 
dark to dawn, over and over again. Each period 
must be fought through as it comes, with no thought 
about the others. I’m beginning on the third. The 
morning will bring the fourth. 

Each one is like a lifetime — a birth and a death. 
And oh, my Prince, I shall soon be very, very old. 
I don’t dare look in the mirror to-night, for fear of 
seeing how old I’ve grown since morning. I remem- 
ber a word they used on shipboard when the waves 
threw the big propeller out of the water and the full 
power of the engines was wasted on air. They called 
it “racing.” It was bad for the ship to have this 


LETTERS 


^41 

energy go for nothing. It racked her and made her 
tremble and groan. IVe been racing ever since you 
went, churning the air to no purpose, with a power 
that was meant to drive me ahead. I ’m right where 
I started after it all. 

Dearest heart of mine, I love you. Though I 
tremble away from those words, I must put them 
down for once in black and white. Though I tear 
them up into little pieces so small that no one can 
read them, I must write them once. It is such a re- 
lief, here by myself, to be honest. If you were here 
and I were honest, I ’d stand very straight and look 
you fair in the eyes and tell you that over and over 
again. ‘‘I love you, Monte,” I would say. ‘‘I love 
you with all my heart and soul, Monte,” I would 
say. “Right or wrong, coward that I am or not, 
whether it is good for you or not,.I love you, Monte,” 
I would say. And, if you wished, I would let you 
kiss me. And, if you would let me, I would kiss you 
on your dear tousled hair, on your forehead, on your 
eyes — 

That is where I kissed Peter to-day. I will tell 
you here, as I would tell you standing before you. 
I kissed Peter on his eyes, and I have promised to 
kiss him again upon his eyes to-morrow — if to- 
morrow comes. I did it because he said it would 
help him to see again. And if he sees again — why, 
Monte, if he sees again, then he will see how absurd 
it is that he should ask me to love him. 

Blind as he is, he almost saw that to-day, when he 
made me promise to try to stay by his side. With 
his eyes full open, then he will be able to read my 
eyes. So I shall kiss him there as often as he wishes. 
Then, when he understands, I shall not fear for him. 
He is a man. Only, if I told him with my lips, he 
would not understand. He must find out for himself. 
Then he will throw back his shoulders and take the 


THE TRIFLERS 


242 

blow — as we all of us have had to take our blows. 
It will be no worse for him than for you, dear, or 
for me. 

It is not as I kissed him that I should kiss you. 
How silly it is of men to ask for kisses when, if they 
come at all, they come unasked. What shall I do 
with all of mine that are for you alone I throw 
them out across the dark to you — here and here 
and here. 

I wonder what you are doing at this moment? 
I have wondered so about every moment since you 
went. Because I cannot know, I feel as if I were 
being robbed. At times I fancy I can see as clearly 
as if I were with you. You went to the station and 
bought your ticket and got into your compartment. 
I could see you sitting there smoking, your eyes 
turned out the window. I could see what you saw, 
but I could not tell of what you were thinking. And 
that is what counts. That is the only thing that 
counts. There are those about me who watch me 
going my usual way, but how little they know of 
what a change has come over me! How little even 
Peter knows, who imagines he knows me so well. 

I see you reaching Paris and driving to your hotel. 
I wonder if you are at the Normandie. I don’t even 
know that. I’d like to know that. I wonder if you 
would dare sleep in your old room. Oh, I’d like to 
know that. It would be so restful to think of you 
there. But what, if there, are you thinking about? 
About me, at all? I don’t want you to think about 
me, but I ’d die if I knew you did not think about me. 

I don’t want you to be worried, dear you. I won’t 
have you unhappy. You said once, “Is n’t it possi- 
ble to care a little without caring too much? ” Now 
I ’m going to ask you: “ Is n’t it possible for you to 
think of me a little without thinking too much?” 
If you could remember some of those evenings on 


LETTERS 


243 

the ride to Nice, — even if with a smile, — that 
would be better than nothing. If you could remem- 
ber that last night before we got to Nice, when 
— when I looked up at you and something al- 
most leaped from my eyes to yours. If you could 
remember that with just a little knowledge of what 
it meant — not enough to make you unhappy, but 
enough to make you want to see me again. Could 
you do that without getting uncomfortable — with- 
out mixing up your schedule.^ 

I cried a little right here, Monte. It was a silly 
thing to do. But you’re alone in Paris, where we 
were together, and I ’m alone here. It is still raining. 
I think it is going to rain forever. I can’t imagine 
ever seeing the blue sky again. If I did, it would only 
make me think of those glorious days between Paris 
and Nice. How wonderful it was that it never 
rained at all. The sky was always pink in the east 
when I woke up, and we saw it grow pink again at 
night, side by side. iThen the purple of the night, 
with the myriad silver stars, each one beautiful in 
itself. 

At night you always seemed to me to grow bigger 
than, ever — inches taller and broader, until some 
evenings when I bade you good-night I was almost 
afraid of you. Because as you grew bigger I grew 
smaller. I used to think that, if you took a notion 
to do so, you’d just pick me up and carry me off. 
If you only had! 

If you had only said, “We’ll quit this child’s play. 
You’ll come with me and we’ll make a home and 
settle down, like Chic.” 

I ’d have been a good wife to you, Monte. Honest, 
I would — if you ’d done like that any time before 
I met Peter and became ashamed. Up to that point 
I ’d have gone with you if you had loved me enough 
to take me. Only, you did n’t love me. That was 


THE TRIFLERS 


244 

the trouble, Monte. I ’d made you think I did not 
want to be loved. Then I made you think I was n’t 
worth loving. Then, when Peter came and made me 
see and hang my head, — why, then it was too late, 
even though you had wanted to take me. 

But you don’t know, and never will know, what 
a good wife I’d have been. But I would have tried 
to lead you a little, too. I would have watched over 
you and been at your command, but I would have 
tried to guide you into doing something worth while. 

Perhaps we could have done something together 
worth while. You have a great deal of money, 
Monte, and I have a great deal. We have more than 
is good for us. I think if we had worked together we 
could have done something for other people with it. 
I never thought of that until lately; but the other 
evening, after you had been talking about your days 
in college, I lay awake in bed, thinking how nice it 
would be if we could do something for some of the 
young fellows there now who do not have money 
enough. I imagined myself going back to Cambridge 
with you some day and calling on the president or 
the dean, and hearing you say to him: “Madame 
Covington and I have decided that we want to help 
every year one or more young men needing help. 
If you will send to us those you approve of, we will 
lend them enough to finish their course.” 

I thought it would be nicer to lend the money 
than give it to them, because they would feel better 
about it. And they could be as long as they wished 
in paying it back, or if they fell into hard luck need 
never pay it back. 

So every year we would start as many as we 
could, each of us paying half. They would come to 
us, and we would get to know them, and we would 
watch them through, and after that watch them 
fight the good fight. Why, in no time, Monte, we 


LETTERS 


245 

would have quite a family to watch over; and they 
would come to you for advice, and perhaps some- 
times to me. Think what an interest that would add 
to your life! It would be so good for you, Monte, 
And good for me, too. Even if we had — oh, Monte, 
we might in time have had boys of our own in 
Harvard tool Then they would have selected other 
boys for us, and that would have been good for them 
too. 

Here by myself I can tell you these things, be- 
cause — because, God keep me, you cannot hear. 
You did not think I could dream such dreams as 
those, did you.^ You thought I was always thinking 
of myself and my own happiness, and of nothing 
else. You thought I asked everything and wished to 
give nothing. But that was before I knew what love 
is. That was before you touched me with the magic 
wand. That was before I learned that our individual 
lives are as brief as the sparks that fly upward, ex- 
cept as we live them through others; and that then 

— they are eternal. It was within our grasp, Monte, 
dear, and we trifled with it and let it go. 

No, not you. It was I who refused the gift. Some 
day it will come to you again, through some other. 
That is what I tell myself over and over again. I 
don’t think men are like women. They do not give 
so much of themselves, and so they may choose from 
two or three. So in time, as you wander about, you 
will And some one who will hold out her arms, and 
you will come. She will give you everything she has, 

— all honest women do that, — but it will not be all 
I would have given. You may think so, and so be 
happy; but it will not be true. I shall always know 
the difference. And you will give her what you have, 
but it will not be what you would have given me — 
what I would have drawn out of you. I shall always 
know that. Because, as I love you, heart of me, I 


246 THE TRIFLERS 

would have found in you treasures that were meant 
for me alone. 

Pm getting wild. I must stop. My head is spin- 
ning. Soon it will be dawn, and I am to ride again 
with Peter to-morrow. I told you I would ride every 
fair day with him, and I am hoping it will rain. But 
it will not rain, though to me the sky may be murky. 
I can see the clouds scudding before a west wind. 
It will be clear, and I shall ride with him as I prom- 
ised, and I shall kiss him upon his eyes. But if you 
were with me — 

Here and here and here I throw them out into the 
dark. 

Good-night, soul of my soul. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


THE BLIND SEE 

Day by day Peter’s eyes grew stronger, because 
day by day he was thinking less about himself 
and more about Marjory. 

“He needs to get away from himself,” the doc- 
tors had told Beatrice. “ If you can find something 
that will occupy his thoughts, so that he will quit 
thinking about his eyes, you ’ll double his chances.” 
Beatrice had done that when she found Marjory, 
and now she was more than satisfied with the 
result and with herself. Every morning she saw 
Peter safely entrusted to Marjory’s care, and this 
left her free the rest of the day to walk a little, 
read her favorite books, and nibble chocolates. 
She was getting a much-needed rest, secure in the 
belief that everything was working out in quite 
an ideal way. 

The only thing that seemed to her at all strange 
was a sudden reluctance on Peter’s part to talk to 
her of Marjory. At the end of the day the three 
had dinner together at the Hotel d’Angleterre, — 
Marjory could never be persuaded to dine at the 
Roses, — and when by eight Peter and his sister 
returned to their own hotel, he gave her only the 
barest details of his excursion, and retired early 
to his room. But he seemed cheerful enough, so 


THE TRIFLERS 


'248 

that, after all, this might be only another favor- 
able symptom of his progress. Peter always had 
been more or less secretive, and until his illness 
neither she nor his parents knew more than an 
outline of his life in New York. Periodically they 
came on to visit him for a few days, and periodi- 
cally he went home for a few days. He was mak- 
ing a name for himself, and they were very proud 
of him, and the details did not matter. Know- 
ing Peter as they did, it was easy enough to fill 
them in. 

Even with Marjory, Peter talked less and less . 
about himself. From his own ambitions, hopes, 
and dreams he turned more and more to hers. 
Now that he had succeeded in making her a pris- 
oner, however slender the thread by which he held 
her, he seemed intent upon filling in all the past as 
fully as possible. Up to a certain point that v/as 
easy enough. She was willing to talk of her girl- 
hood; of her father, whom she adored; and even 
of Aunt Kitty, who had claimed her young woman- 
hood. She was even eager. It afforded her a safe 
topic in which she found relief. It gave her an 
opportunity also to justify, in a fashion, or at 
least to explain, both to herself and Peter, the 
frame of mind that led her up to later events. 

“I ran away from you, Peter,” she admitted, 
know,” he answered. 

'^‘Only it was not so much from you as from 
what you stood for,” she hurried on. ‘H was 
thinking of myself alone, and of the present alone. 


THE BLIND SEE 


249 

I had been *a prisoner so long, I wanted to be free 
a little.” 

‘^Free?” he broke in quickly, with a frown. 
don’t like to hear you use that word. That’s the 
way Covington’s wife talked, is n’t it.^” 

‘‘Yes,” she murmured. 

“It’s the way so many women are talking to- 
day — and so many men, too. Freedom is such a 
big word that a lot of people seem to think it will 
cloak anything they care to do. They lose sight of 
the fact that the freer a man or a woman is, the 
more responsibility he assumes. The free are put 
upon their honor to fulfill the obligations that are 
exacted by force from the irresponsible. So those 
who abuse this privilege are doubly treacherous 
— treacherous to themselves, and treacherous to 
society, which trusted them.” 

Marjory turned aside her head, so that he might 
not even look upon her with his blind eyes. 

“I — I didn’t mean any harm, Peter,” she 
said. 

“Of course you did n’t. I don’t suppose Mrs. 
Covington did, either; did she.^” 

“No, Peter, I’m sure she didn’t. She — -she 
was selfish.” 

“Besides, if you only come through safe, and 
learn — ” 

“At least, I’ve learned,” she answered. 

“ Since you went away from me ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“You have n’t told me very much about that.” 


THE TRIFLERS 


250 

She caught her breath. 

“ Is — is it dishonest to keep to one’s self how 
one learns?” she asked. 

“No, little woman; only, I feel as though I’d 
like to know you as I know myself. I’d like to 
feel that there was n’t a nook or cranny in your 
mind that was n’t open to me.” 

“Peter!” 

“Is that asking too much?” 

“Some day you must know, but not now.” 

“If Mrs. Covington — ” 

“Must we talk any more about her?” she ex- 
claimed. 

“I did n’t know it hurt you.” 

“It does — more than you realize.” 

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. 

He fumbled about for her hand. She allowed 
him to take it. 

“Have you heard from Covington since he 
left?” 

He felt her fingers twitch. 

“Does it hurt, too, to talk about him?” he 
asked. 

“It’s impossible to talk about Monte without 
talking about his — his — about Mrs. Coving- 
ton,” Marjory explained feebly. 

“They ought to be one,” he admitted. “But 
you said they are about to separate.” 

“Yes, Peter; only I keep thinking of what ought 
to be.” 

She withdrew her hand and leaned back on the 


THE BLIND SEE 


251 

seat a little away from him. Sensitive to every 
movement of hers, he glanced up at this. 

‘‘Somehow,” — he said, with a strained ex- 
pression, — “ somehow I feel the need of seeing 
your eyes to-day. There’s something I ’m missing. 
There’s something here I don’t understand.” 

“Don’t try to understand, Peter,” she cried. 
“It’s better that you should n’t.” 

“It’s best always to know the truth,” he said. 

“Not always.” 

“Always,” he insisted. 

“Sometimes it does n’t do any good to know 
the truth. It only hurts.” 

“Even then, it’s best. When I get my eyes — ” 

She shrank farther away from him, for she saw 
him struggling even then to open them. 

-i- . 

It was this possibility which from that point 
on added a new terror to these daily drives. Mar- 
jory had told Monte that Peter’s recovery was 
something to which she looked forward; but when 
she said that she had been sitting alone and pour- 
ing out her heart to Monte. She had not then been 
facing this fact by the side of Peter. It was one 
thing to dream boldly, with all her thoughts of 
Monte, and quite another to confront the same 
facts actually and alone. If this crisis came now, 
it was going to hurt her and hurt Peter, and do no 
good to any one; while, if it could be postponed 
six months, perhaps it would not hurt so much. 
It was better for Peter to endure his blindness a 


THE TRIFLERS 


252 

little longer than to see too soon. So the next day 
she decided she would not kiss his eyes. He came 
to her in the morning, and stood before her, wait- 
ing. She placed her hand upon his shoulder. 

“Peter,” she said as gently as she could, “I 
do not think I shall kiss you again for a little 
while.” 

She saw his lips tighten ; but, to her surprise, he 
made no protest. 

“No, dear heart,” he answered. 

“ It is n’t because I wish to be unkind,” she said. 
^‘Only, until you know the whole truth, I don’t 
feel honest with you.” 

“ Come over by the window and sit down in the 
light,” he requested. 

With a start she glanced nervously at his eyes. 
They were closed. She took a chair in the sun, and 
he sat down opposite her. 

For a moment they sat so, in silence. With her 
chin in her hand, she stared out across the blue 
waters of the Mediterranean, across the quay 
where Monte used to walk. It looked so desolate 
out there without him 1 How many hours since he 
left she had watched people pass back and forth 
along the broad path, as if hoping against hope 
that by some chance he might suddenly appear 
among them. But he never did, and she knew that 
she might sit here watching year after year and he 
would not come. 

By this time he was probably in England — 
probably, on such a day as this, out upon the 


THE BLIND SEE 


253 

links. She smiled a little. ‘^Damn golf!’’ he had 
said. 

She thought for a moment that she heard his 
voice repeating it. It was only Peter’s voice. 

“You have grown even more beautiful than I 
thought,” Peter was saying. 

She sprang to her feet. He was looking at her 
— shading his opened eyes with one hand. 

“Peter!” she cried, falling back a step. 

“More beautiful,” he repeated. “But your 
eyes are sadder.” 

“Peter,” she said again, “your eyes are open!” 

“Yes,” he said. “It became necessary for me 
to see — so they opened.” 

Before them, she felt ashamed — almost like 
one naked. She began to tremble. Then, with her 
cheeks scarlet, she covered her face with her 
hands. 

Peter rose and helped her back to a chair as if 
she, in her turn, had suddenly become blind. 

“If I frighten you like this I — I must not look 
at you,” he faltered. 

Still she trembled; still she covered her face. 

“See!” he cried. “I have closed them again. 

She looked up in amazement. He was standing 
with his eyes tight shut. He who had been in 
darkness all these long months had dared, to save 
her from her own shame, to return again to the 
pit. For a second it stopped her heart from beat- 
ing. Then, springing to his side, she seized his 
hands. 


THE TRIFLERS 


254 

“Peter,” she commanded, “open your eyes!” 

He was pale — ghastly pale. 

“Not if it hurts you.” 

Swiftly leaning toward him, she kissed the closed 
lids. 

“Will you open them — now?” 

She was in terror lest he should find it impossi- 
ble again — as if that had been some temporary 
miracle which, having been scorned, would not be 
repeated. 

Then once again she saw his eyes flutter open. 
This time she faced them with her fists clenched 
by her side. What a difference those eyes made in 
him. Closed, he was like a helpless child; open, he 
was a man. He grew taller, bigger, older, while 
she who had been leading him about shrank into 
insignificance. She felt pettier, plainer, less worthy 
than ever she had in her life. By sheer force of will 
power she held up her head and faced him as if she 
were facing the sun. 

For a moment he feasted upon her hungrily. 
To see her hair, when for months he had been 
forced to content himself with memories of it; to 
see her white forehead, her big, deep eyes and 
straight nose; to see the lips which he had only 
felt — all that held him silent. But he saw some- 
thing else there, too. In physical detail this face 
was the same that he had seen before he was 
stricken. But something had been added. Before 
she had the features of a girl; now she had the fea- 
tures of a woman. Something had since been 





“PETER!” SHE CRIED, FALLING BACK A STEP 



THE BLIND SEE 


2SS 

added to the eyes and mouth — something he 
knew nothing about. 

“Marjory,” he said slowly, “I think there is a 
great deal you have left untold.” 

She tightened her lips. There was no further 
use of evasion. If he pressed her with his eyes 
open, he must know the truth. 

“Yes, Peter,” she answered. 

“I can’t decide,” he went on slowly, “whether 
it has to do with a great grief or a great joy.” 

“The two so often come together,” she trem- 
bled. 

“Yes,” he nodded; “I think that is true. Per- 
haps they belong together,” 

“I have only just learned that,” she said. 

“And you’ve been left with the grief?” 

“ I can’t tell, Peter. Sometimes I think so, and 
then again I see the justice of it, and it seems 
beautiful. All I ’m sure of is that I ’m left alone.” 

“Even with me?” 

“Even with you, Peter.” 

He passed his hand over his eyes. 

“This other — do I know him ? ” he asked finally. 

“Yes.” 

“It — it is Covington?” 

“Yes.” 

She spoke almost mechanically. 

— I should have guessed it before. Had I 
been able to see, I should have known.” 

“That is why I did n’t wish you to see me — so 
soon,” Marjory said. 


THE TRIFLERS 


256 

“Covington!’’ he repeated. “But what of the 
other woman?” 

She took a long breath. 

“I — I’m the other woman,” she answered. 

“Marjory!” he cried. “Not she you told me 
of?” 

“Yes.” 

“Hiswife!” 

“No — not that. Merely Mrs. Covington.” 

“I don’t understand. You don’t mean you’re 
not his wife!” He checked himself abruptly. 

“We were married in Paris,” she hastened to 
explain. “ But — but we agreed the marriage was 
to be only a form. He was to come down here with 
me as a compagnon de voyage. He wished only to 
give me the protection of his name, and that — 
that was all I wished. It was not until I met you, 
Peter, that I realized what I had done.” 

“It was not until then you realized that you 
really loved him?” 

“Not until then,” she moaned. 

“But, knowing that, you allowed me to talk as 
I did; to hope — ” 

“Peter — dear Peter!” she broke in. “It was 
not then. It was only after I knew he had gone 
out of my life forever that I allowed that. You 
see, he has gone. He has gone to England, and 
from there he is going home. You know what 
he is going for. He is never coming back. So it is 
as if he died, isn’t it ? I allowed you to talk because 
I knew you were telling the truth. And I did not 


THE BLIND SEE 


2S7 


promise much. When you asked me never to go 
from you, all I said was that I ’d try. You remem- 
ber that? And I have tried, and I was going to 
keep on trying — ever so hard. I had ruined my 
own life and his life, and — and I did n’t want to 
hurt you any more. I wanted to do what I could 
to undo some of the harm I ’d already done. I 
thought that perhaps if we went on like this long 
enough, I might forget a little of the past and look 
forward only to the future. Some day I meant to 
tell you. You know that, Peter. You know I 
would n’t be dishonest with you.” She was talk- 
ing hysterically, anxious only to relieve the tense- 
ness of his lips. She was not sure that he heard her 
at all. He was looking at her, but with curious de- 
tachment, as if he were at a play. 

Peter — say something!” she begged. 

“It’s extraordinary that I should ever have 
dared hope you were for me,” he said. 

“You mean you — you don’t want me, Peter? ” 

“Want you?” he cried hoarsely. “I’d go 
through hell to get you. I’d stay mole-blind 
the rest of my life to get you! Want you?” 

He stepped toward her with his hands out- 
stretched as if to seize her. In spite of herself, she 
shrank away. 

“You see,” he ran on. “What difference does 
it make if I want you? You belong to another. 
You belong to Covington. You have n’t anything 
to do with yourself any more. You have n’t your- 
self to give. You’re his.” 


THE TRIFLERS 


258 

With her hand above her eyes as if to ward off 
his blows, she gasped : — 

‘Wou must n’t say such things, Peter.” 

“I’m only telling the truth, and there’s no 
harm in that. I ’m telling you what you have n’t 
dared tell yourself.” 

“Things I mustn’t tell myself!” she cried. 
“Things I must n’t hear.” 

“What I don’t understand,” he said, “is why 
Covington did n’t tell you all this himself. He 
must have known.” 

“He knew nothing,” she broke in. “I was a 
mere incident in his life. We met in Paris quite by 
accident when he happened to have an idle week. 
He was alone and I was alone, and he saved me 
from a disagreeable situation. Then, because he 
still had nothing in particular to do and I had 
nothing in particular to do, he suggested this 
further arrangement. We were each considering 
nothing but our own comfort. We wanted noth- 
ing more. It was to escape just such complications 
as this — to escape responsibility, as I told you 
— that we — we married. He was only a boy, 
Peter, and knew no better. But I was a woman, 
and should have known. And I came to know! 
That was my punishment.” 

“He came to know, too,” said Peter. 

“He might have come to know,” she corrected 
breathlessly. “There were moments when I dared 
think so. If I had kept myself true — oh, Peter, 
these are terrible things to say!” 


THE BLIND SEE 


259 

She buried her face in her hands again — a pic- 
ture of total and abject misery. Her frame shook 
with sobs that she was fighting hard to suppress. 

Peter placed his hand gently upon her shoulder. 

“There, little woman,” he tried to comfort. 
“Cry a minute. It will do you good.” 

“I have n’t even the right to cry,” she sobbed. 

“You must cry,” he said. “You have n’t let 
yourself go enough. That’s been the whole 
trouble.” 

He was silent a moment, patting her back, with 
his eyes leveled out of the window as if trying to 
look beyond the horizon, beyond that to the secret 
places of eternity. 

“You have n’t let yourself go enough,” he re- 
peated, almost like a seer. “You have tried to 
force your destiny from its appointed course. You 
have, and Covington has, and I have. We have 
tried to force things that were not meant to be 
and to balk things that were meant to be. That’s 
because we’ve been selfish — all three of us. 
We’ve each thought of ourself alone — of our own 
petty little happiness of the moment. That’s 
deadly. It warps the vision. It — it makes peo- 
ple stone-blind. 

“I understand now. When you went away 
from me, it was myself alone I considered. I was 
hurt and worried, and made a martyr of myself. If 
I had thought more of you, all would have been 
well. This time I think I — I have thought a little 
more of you. It was to get at you and not myself 


26 o 


THE TRIFLERS 


that I wanted to see again. So I saw again. I let 
go of myself and reached out for you. So now — 
why, everything is quite clear.’’ 

She raised her head. 

“Clear, Peter.?” 

“Quite clear. I’m to go back to my work, and 
to use my eyes less and my head and heart more. 
I ’m to deal less with statutes and more with peo- 
ple. Instead of quoting precedents, perhaps I ’m 
going to try to establish precedents. There’s 
work enough to be done, God knows, of a sort 
that is born of just such a year as this I’ve lived 
through. I must let go of myself and let myself 
go. I must think less of my own ambitions and 
more of the ambitions of others. So I shall live in 
others. Perhaps I may even be able to live a little 
through you two.” 

“Peter!” she cried. 

“ For Covington must come back to you as fast 
as ever he can.” 

“No! No! No!” 

“You don’t understand how much he loves his 
wife.” 

“Please!” 

“And, he, poor devil, does n’t understand how 
much his wife loves him.” 

“You — you ” — she trembled aghast — “you 
would n’t dare repeat what I’ve told you!” 

“You don’t want to stagger on in the dark any 
longer. You’ll let me tell him.” 

She rose to her feet, her face white. 


THE BLIND SEE 


261 


‘‘Peter,” she said slowly, “if ever you told him 
that, Pd never forgive you. If ever you told him, 
I’d deny it. You’d only force me into more lies. 
You’d only crush me lower.” 

“Steady, Marjory,” he said. 

“You’re wonderful, Peter!” she exclaimed. 
“You ’ve — you ’ve been seeing visions. But when 
you speak of telling him what I’ve told you, 
you don’t understand how terrible that would be. 
Peter — you’ll promise me you won’t do that.^” 

She was pleading, with panic in her eyes. 

“Yet, if he knew, he’d come racing to you.” 

“He’d do that because he’s a gentleman and 
four-square. He’d come to me and pretend. He’d 
feel himself at fault, and pity me. Do you know 
how it hurts a woman to be pitied.^ I’d rather 
he’d hate me. I’d rather he’d forget me alto- 
gether.” 

“But what of the talks I had with him in the 
dark.?” he questioned. “When he talked to me 
of you then, it was not in pity.” 

“Because,” — she choked, — “ because he does 
n’t know himself as I know him. He — he does n’t 
like changes — dear Monte. It disturbed him to 
go because it would have been so much easier to 
have stayed. So, for the moment, he may have 
been — a bit sentimental.” 

“You don’t think as little of him as that!” he 
cried. 

“He — he is the man who married me,” she 
answered unsteadily. “ It was — just Monte who 


262 


THE TRIFLERS 


married me — honest, easy-going, care-free Monte, 
who is willing to do a woman a favor even to the 
extent of marrying her. He is very honest and 
very gallant and very normal. He likes one day 
to be as another. He does n’t wish to be stirred up. 
He asked me this, Peter: ‘Is n’t it possible to care 
without caring too much?’ And I said, ‘Yes.’ 
That was why he married me. He had seen others 
who cared a great deal, and they frightened him. 
They cared so much that they made themselves 
uncomfortable, and he feared that.” 

“Good Lord, you call that man Covington?” 
exclaimed Peter. 

“No — just Monte,” Marjory answered 
quickly. “It’s just the outside of him. The man 
you call Covington — the man inside — is an- 
other man.” 

“It’s the real man,” declared Peter. 

“Yes,” she nodded, with a catch in her voice. 
“That’s the real man. But — don’t you under- 
stand ? — it was n’t that man who married me. 
It was Monte who married me to escape Coving- 
ton. He trusted me not to disturb the real man, 
just as I trusted him not to disturb the real me.” 

Peter leaned forward with a new hope in his 
eyes. 

“Then,” he said, “perhaps, after all, he did n’t 
get to the real you.” 

Quite simply she replied : — 

“He did, Peter. He does not know it, but he 
did.” 


THE BLIND SEE 


263 


“You are sure?” 

She knew the pain she was causing him, but she 
answered : — 

“Yes. I could n’t admit that to any one else 
in the world but you — and it hurts you, Peter.” 

“ It hurts like the devil,” he said. 

She placed her hand upon his. 

“Poor Peter,” she said gently. 

“It hurts like the devil, but it’s nothing for you 
to pity me for,” he put in quickly. “I’d rather 
have the hurt from you than nothing.” 

“You feel like that?” she asked earnestly. 

“Yes.” 

“Then,” she said, “you must understand how, 
even with me, the joy and the grief are one?” 

“Yes, I understand that. Only if he knew — ” 

“He’d come back to me, you’re going to say 
again. And I tell you again, I won’t have him 
come back, kind and gentle and smiling. If he 
came back now, — if it were possible for him really 
to come to me, — I’d want him to ache with love. 
Pd want him to be hurt with love.” 

She was talking fiercely, with a wild, unre- 
strained passion such as Peter had never seen in 
any woman. 

“I’d want,” she hurried on, out of all control of 
herself — “I’d want everything I don’t want him 
to give — everything I ’ve no right to ask. I ’d 
want him to live on tiptoe from one morning 
through to the next. I’d begrudge him every 
minute he was just comfortable. I’d want him 


THE TRIFLERS 


264 

always eager, always worried, because I ’d be al- 
ways looking for him to do great things. I ’d have 
him always ready for great sacrifices — not for me 
alone, but for himself. I’d be so proud of him I 
think I — I could with a smile see him sacrifice 
even his life for another. For I should know that, 
after a little waiting, I should meet him again, a 
finer and nobler man. And all those things I asked 
of him I should want to do for him. I ’d like to lay 
down my life for him.” 

She stopped as abruptly as she had begun, star- 
ing about like some one suddenly awakened to 
find herself in a strange country. It was Peter’s 
voice that brought her back again to the empty 
room. 

‘‘How you do love him!” he said solemnly. 

“Peter,” she cried, “you should n’t have lis- 
tened!” 

She shrank back toward the door. 

“And I — I thought just kisses on the eyes 
stood for love,” he added. 

“You must forget all I said,” she moaned. “I 
was mad — for a moment!” 

“You were wonderful,” he told her. 

She was still backing toward the door. 

“I’m going off to hide,” she said piteously. 

“Not that,” he called after her. 

But the door closed in front of her. The door 
closed in front of him. With his lips clenched, 
Peter Noyes walked back to the Hotel des Roses. 


CHAPTER XXV 


so LONG 

When Peter stepped into his sister’s room he 
had forgotten that his eyes were open. 

‘^Beatrice,” he said, “we must start back for 
New York as soon as possible.” 

She sprang from her chair. Pale and without 
his shade, he was like an apparition. 

“Peter!” she cried. 

“What’s the trouble?” 

“Your eyes!” 

“They came back this morning.” 

“Then I was right! Marjory — Marjory worked 
the miracle ! ” 

He smiled a little. 

“Yes.” 

“It’s wonderful. But, Peter — ” 

“Well?” 

“You look so strange — so pale!” 

“It’s been — well, rather an exciting experi- 
ence.” 

She put her arms about his neck and kissed him. 
“You should have brought the miracle-worker 
with you,” she smiled. 

“And instead of that I’m leaving her.” 
^‘Leaving Marjory — after this?” 

“Sit down, little sister,” he begged. “A great 


266 


THE TRIFLERS 


deal has happened this morning — a great deal 
that Pm afraid it’s going to be hard for you to 
understand. It was hard for me to understand at 
first; and yet, after all, it’s merely a question of 
fact. It is n’t anything that leaves any chance for 
speculation. It just is, that’s all. You see, you — 
both of us — made an extraordinary mistake. 
We — we assumed that Marjory was free.” 

“Free? Of course she’s free!” exclaimed 
Beatrice. 

“Only she’s not,” Peter informed her. “As a 
matter of fact, she’s married.” 

“Marjory — married I ” 

“To Covington. She’s Covington’s wife. They 
were married a few weeks ago in Paris. You un- 
derstand? She’s Covington’s wife.” His voice 
rose a trifle. 

“Peter — you’re sure of that?” 

“ She told me so herself — less than an hour 
ago. 

“That’s impossible. Why, she listened to me 
when — ” 

“When what?” he cut in. 

Frightened, she clasped her hands beneath her 
chin. 

His eyes demanded a reply. 

“I — I told her what the doctors told me. 
Don’t look at me so, Peter!” 

“You tried to win her sympathy for me?” 

“They told me if you stopped worrying, your 
sight would come back. I told her that, Peter.” 


so LONG 


267 


‘‘You told her more?” 

“That if she could love you — oh, I could n’t 
help it!” 

“So that is why she listened to you; why she 
listened to me. You begged for her pity, and — 
she gave it. I thought at least I could leave her 
with my head up.” 

Beatrice began to sob. 

“I — I did the best I knew how,” she pleaded. 

His head was bowed. He looked crushed. 
Throwing herself upon her knees in front of him, 
Beatrice reached for his clasped hands. 

“I did the best I knew!” she moaned. 

“Yes,” he answered dully; “you did that. 
Every one has done that. Only — nothing should 
have been done at all. Nothing can ever be 
done.” 

“You — you forgive me, Peter?” 

“Yes.” 

But his voice was dead. It had no meaning. 

“ It may all be for the best,” she ran on, anxious 
to revive him. “We’ll go back to New York, 
Peter — you and I. Perhaps you’ll let me stay 
with you there. We’ll get a little apartment to- 
gether, so that I can care for you. I ’ll do that all 
the days of my life, if you’ll let me.” 

“ I want a better fate than that for you, little 
sister,” he answered. 

Rising, he helped her to her feet. He smoothed 
back her hair from her forehead and kissed her 
there. 


268 


THE TRIFLERS 


“It won’t do to look ahead very far, or back- 
wards either just now,” he said. “But if I can be- 
lieve there is something still left in life for me, I 
must believe there is a great deal more left for you. 
Only we must get away from here as soon as pos- 
sible.” 

“You have your eyes, Peter,” she exclaimed 
exultingly. “ She can’t take those away from you 
again!” 

“Hush,” he warned. “You must never blame 
her for anything.” 

“You mean you still — ” 

“Still and forever, little sister,” he answered. 
“But we must not talk of that.” 

“Poor Peter,” she trembled. 

“Rich Peter!” he corrected, with a wan smile. 
“There are so many who have n’t as much as 
that.” 

He went back to his room. The next thing to do 
was to write some sort of explanation to Coving- 
ton. His ears burned as he thought of the other 
letter he had sent. How it must have bored into 
the man! How it must have hurt! He had been 
forced to read the confession of love of another 
man for his wife. The wonder was that he had not 
taken the next train back and knocked down the 
writer. It must be that he understood the hope- 
lessness of such a passion. Perhaps he had smiled ! 
Only that was not like Covington. Rather, he had 
gripped his jaws and stood it. 


so LONG 


269 

But if it had hurt and he hankered for revenge, 
he was to have it now. He, Noyes, had bared his 
soul to the husband and confessed a love that now 
he must stand up and recant. That was punish- 
ment enough for any man. He must do that, too, 
without violating any of Marjory’s confidences — 
without helping in any way to disentangle the 
pitiful snarl that it was within his power to disen- 
tangle. She whose happiness might partly have 
recompensed him for what he had to do, he must 
still leave unhappy. As far as he himself was con- 
cerned, however, he was entitled to tell the truth. 
He could not recant his love. That would be false. 
But he had no right to it — that was what he 
must make Covington understand. 

Dear Covington [he began] : I am writing this with 
my eyes open. The miracle I spoke of came to pass. 
Also a great many other things have come to pass. 
You’ll realize how hard it is to write about them 
after that other letter, when I tell you I have learned 
the truth: that Marjory is Mrs. Covington. She 
told me herself, when our relations reached a crisis 
where she had to tell. 

I feel, naturally, as if I owed you some sort of 
apology; and yet, when I come to frame it, I find 
myself baffled. Of course I’m leaving for home as 
soon as possible — probably to-morrow. Of course 
if I had known the truth I should have left long ago, 
and that letter would never have had any occasion 
for being written. I’m assuming, Covington, that 
you will believe that without any question. You 
knew what I did not know and did not tell me even 
after you knew how I felt. I suppose you felt so 


THE TRIFLERS 


270 

confident of her that you trusted her absolutely to 
handle an affair of this sort herself. 

I want to say right here, you were justified. 
Whatever in that other letter I may have said to 
lead you to believe she had come to care for me in 
the slightest was a result solely of my ow;n self-de- 
lusion and her innate gentleness. I have discovered 
that my sister, meaning no harm, went to her and 
told her that the restoration of my sight depended 
upon her interest in me. It was manifestly unfair of 
my sister to put it that way, but the little woman 
was thinking only of me. I’m sorry it was done. 
Evidently it was the basis upon which she made the 
feeble promise I spoke of, and which I exaggerated 
into something more. 

She cared for me no more than for a friend tem- 
porarily afflicted. That’s all, Covington. Neither 
in word nor thought nor deed has she ever gone any 
further. Looking back upon the last few days now, 
it is clear enough. Rather than hurt me, she al- 
lowed me to talk — allowed me to believe. Rather, 
she suffered it. It was not pleasant for her. She 
endured it because of what my sister had said. It 
seems hard luck that I should have been led in this 
fashion to add to whatever other burdens she may 
have had. 

I ask you to believe — it would be an imperti- 
nence, except for what I told you before — that on 
her side there has been nothing between us of which 
you could not approve. 

Now for myself. In the light of what I know to- 
day, I could not have written you of her as I did. 
Yet, had I remained silent, all I said would have re- 
mained just as much God’s truth as then. Though 
I must admit the utter hopelessness of my love, I see 
no reason why I should think of attempting to deny 
that love. It would n’t be decent to myself, to you, 


so LONG 


271 

or to her. It began before you came into her life at 
all. It has grown bigger and cleaner since then. It 
persists to-day. I ’m talking to you as man to man, 
Covington. I know you won’t confuse that state- 
ment with any desire on my part — with any hope, 
however remote — to see that love fulfilled further 
than it is fulfilled to-day. That delusion has van- 
ished forever. I shall never entertain it again, no 
matter what course your destiny or her destiny may 
take. I cannot make that emphatic enough, Cov- 
ington. It is based upon a certain knowledge of 
facts which, unfortunately, I am not at liberty to 
reveal to you. 

So, as far as my own emotions are concerned then, 
I retract nothing of what I told you. In fact, to-day 
I could say m.ore. To me she is and ever will be the 
most wonderful woman who ever lived. Thinking 
of you before, I said there ought to be two of her, so 
that one might be left for you. Now, thinking of my- 
self, I would to God there were two of her, so that 
one might be left for me. Yet that is inconceivable. 
It might be possible to find another who looked like 
her; who thought like her; who was willing for the 
big things of life like her. But this other would not 
be Marjory. Besides everything else she has in com- 
mon with other women, she has something all her 
own that makes her herself. It’s that something 
that has got hold of me, Covington. 

I don’t suppose it’s in particularly good taste for 
me to talk to you of your wife in this fashion ; but it ’s 
my dying speech, old man, as far as this subject is 
concerned, and I ’m talking to you and to no one else. 

There ’s just one thing more I want to say. I don’t 
want either you or Marjory to think I’m going out 
of your lives a martyr — that I ’m going off to pine 
and die. The first time she left me I made an ass of 
myself, and that was because I had not then got hold 


THE TRIFLERS 


272 

of the essential fact of love. As I see it now, love — 
real love — does not lie in the personal gratification 
of selfish desires. The wanting is only the first stage. 
Perhaps it is a ruse of Nature to entice men to the 
second stage, which is giving. 

Until recently my whole thought was centered on 
getting. I was thinking of myself alone. It was 
baffled desire and injured vanity that led me to do 
what I did before, and I was justly punished. It 
was when I began to think less about myself and 
more about her that I was reprieved. Um leaving 
her now with but one desire: to do for her whatever 
I may, at any time and in any place, to make her 
happy; and, because of her, to do the same for any 
others with whom for the rest of my life I may be 
thrown in contact. Thus I may be of some use and 
find peace. 

I ’m going away, Covington. That will leave her 
here alone. Wherever you are, there must be trains 
back to Nice — starting perhaps within the hour. 

So long. 


Peter J. Noyes. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


FREEDOM 

With the departure of Peter and his sister — 
Peter had made his leave-taking easy by securing 
an earlier train than she had expected and send- 
ing her a brief note of farewell — Marjory found 
herself near that ideal state of perfect freedom she 
had craved. There was now no outside influence 
to check her movements. If she remained where 
she was, there was no one to interrupt her in the 
solitary pursuit of her own pleasure. Safe from any 
possibility of intrusion, she was at liberty to re- 
main in the seclusion of her room; but, if she 
preferred, she could walk the quay without the 
slightest prospect in the world of being forced to 
recognize the friendly greeting of any one. 

Peter was gone; Beatrice was gone; and Monte 
was gone. There was no one else — unless by 
some chance poor Teddy Hamilton should turn 
up, which was so unlikely that she did not even 
consider it. Yet there were moments when, if she 
had met Teddy, she would have smiled a welcome. 
She would not have feared him. There was only 
one person in the world now of whom she stood in 
fear, and he was somewhere along the English 
coast, playing a poor game of golf. 

She was free beyond her most extravagant 


THE TRIFLERS 


274 

dreams — absolutely free. She was so free that It 
seemed aimless to rise in the morning, because 
there was nothing awaiting her attention. She 
was so free that there was no object in breakfast- 
ing, because there was no obligation demanding 
her strength. She was so free that whether she 
should go out or remain indoors depended merely 
upon the whim of the moment. There was for her 
nothing either without or within. 

For the first twenty-four hours she sat in a sort 
of stupor. 

Marie became anxious. 

‘‘Madame is not well?” she asked solicitously. 

“Perfectly well,” answered Marjory dully. 

“Madame’s cheeks are very white,” Marie ven- 
tured further. 

Madame shrugged her shoulders. 

“Is there any harm in that?” she demanded. 

“It is such a beautiful day to walk,” suggested 
Marie. 

Marjory turned slowly. 

“What do you mean by beautiful?” 

“Ma foi, the sky is blue, the sun is shining, the 
birds singing,” explained Marie. 

“Do those things make a beautiful day?” 

“What else, madame?” inquired the maid, in 
astonishment. 

“ I do not know,” sighed madame. “All I know 
is that for me those things do not count at all.” 

“Then,” declared Marie, “it is time to call a 
doctor.” 


FREEDOM 


27s 


‘Tor what?” 

“To make madame see the blue sky again and 
hear the birds.” 

“But I do not care whether I see them or not,” 
concluded madame, turning away from the 
subject. 

Here was the whole thing in a nutshell. There 
were some who might consider this to be an 
ideal state. Not to care about anything at all was 
not to have anything at all to worry about. Cer- 
tain philosophies were based upon this state of 
mind. In part, Monte’s own philosophy was so 
based. If not to care too much were well, then not 
to care at all should be better. It should leave one 
utterly and sublimely free. But should it also 
leave one utterly miserable? 

There was something inconsistent in that — ■ 
something unfair. To be free, and yet to feel like 
a prisoner bound and gagged; not to care, and yet 
to feel one’s vitals eaten with caring; to obtain 
one’s objective, and then to be marooned there 
like a forsaken sailor on a desert island — this was 
unjust. 

Ah, but she did care ! It was as if some portion 
of her refused absolutely to obey her will in this 
matter. In silence she might declare her determi- 
nation not to care, or through tense lips she might 
mutter the same thing in spoken words; but this 
made no difference. She was a free agent, to be 
sure. She had the right to dictate terms to herself. 
She had the sole right to be arbiter of her destiny. 


THE TRIFLERS 


276 

It was to that end she had craved freedom. It was 
for her alone to decide about what she should care 
and should not care. She was no longer a school- 
girl to be controlled by others. She was both judge 
and jury for herself, and she had passed sentence 
to the effect that, since she had chosen not to care 
when to care had been her privilege, it was no 
longer her privilege to care when she chose to care. 
Nothing since then had developed to give her the 
right to alter that verdict. If anything, it held 
truer after Peter’s departure than ever. She must 
add to her indictment the harm she had done 
him. 

Still, she cared. Staring out of her window upon 
the quay, she caught her breath at sight of every 
new passer-by, in fearful hope that it might prove 
to be Monte. She did this when she knew that 
Monte was hundreds of miles away. She did this in 
face of the fact that, if his coming depended upon 
her consent, she would have withheld that consent. 
If in truth he had suddenly appeared, she would 
have fled in terror. He must not come; he should 
not come — but, O God, if he would come ! 

Sometimes this thought held her for a moment 
before she realized it. Then for a space the sun ap- 
peared in the blue sky and the birds set up such a 
singing as Marie had never heard in all her life. 
Perhaps for a step or two she saw him striding to- 
ward her with his face aglow, his clear, blue eyes 
smiling, his tender man mouth open to greet her. 
So her heart leaped to her throat and her arms 


FREEDOM 


277 

trembled. Then — the fall into the abyss as she 
caught herself. Then her head drooping upon her 
arm and the racking, dry sobs. 

How she did care! It was as if everything she 
had ever hungered for in the past — all her beau- 
tiful, timid girlhood dreams ; all that good part of 
her later hunger for freedom; all of to-day and all 
that was worth while of the days to come, had 
been gathered together, like jewels in a single jewel 
casket, and handed over to him. He had them all. 
None had been left her. She had none left. 

She had always known that if ever she loved it 
was so that she must love. It was this that she 
had feared. She had known that if she gave at all 
she must give utterly — all that she ever had or 
hoped to have. Suddenly she recalled Mrs. Chic. 
It was with a new emotion. The latter had always 
been to her the symbol of complete self-sacrifice. 
It centered around the night Chic, Junior was 
born. That night she had been paler than Mrs. 
Chic herself; she had whimpered more than Mrs. 
Chic. Outside, waiting, she had feared more than 
the wife within who was wrestling with death for a 
new life. She had sat alone, with her hands over 
her ears in an agony of fear and horror. She had 
marveled that any woman would consent to face 
such a crisis. It had seemed wrong that love — an 
affair of orange blossoms and music and laughter 
— should lead to that. Wide-eyed, she had sobbed 
in terror until it was over. It was with awe and 
wonder that a few days later she had seen Mrs. 


278 THE TRIFLERS 

Chic lying in her big white bed so crooningly happy 
and jubilant. 

Now she understood. The fear and horror had 
vanished. Had she been in the next room to-day, 
her heart would have leaped with joy in tune with 
her who was fighting her grim fight. Because the 
aches and the pains are but an incident of prepara- 
tion. Not only that, but one can so love that pain, 
physical pain, may in the end be the only means 
for an adequate expression of that love. The two 
may be one, so blended as to lead, in the end, to 
perfect joy. Even mental pains, such as she her- 
self now suffered, can do that. For all she was 
undergoing she would not have given up one 
second to be back again where she was a month 
before. 

Something comes with love. It is that more than 
love itself which is the greatest thing in the world. 
Sitting by her window, watching the shadows pass, 
Marjory was sensing this. The knowledge was 
coming slowly, imperceptibly; but it was bringing 
her strength. It was steadying her nerves. It was 
preparing her for the supreme test. 

Because that very day, toward sunset- time, as 
she still sat by her window, she saw a shadow that 
looked like Monte. She smiled a little, because 
she knew it would soon dissolve. Rapidly the 
shadow strode along the quay until opposite the 
hotel. Then, instead of vanishing, it came on — 
straight toward her. She sprang to her feet, lean- 
ing back against the wall, not daring to look again. 


FREEDOM 


279 

So she stood, counting her heart-beats; for she was 
still certain that when a hundred or so of them 
had passed, the illusion also would fade. 

Marjory did not have time to count a full hun- 
dred heart-beats before she heard a light rap at 
the door. For the fraction of a second she swayed 
in the fear that, taking the stairs three at a time, 
Monte might have ventured to her very room. 
But it would be with no such gentle tap that he 
would announce himself. 

“Yes.^^” she called. 

‘‘A card for madame,” came the voice of the 
gargon. 

Her knees still weak, she crossed the room and 
took the card. There was no longer any hope left 
to her. Apparitions do not materialize to the point 
where they present their cards. 

‘‘Madame is in.^” queried the boy. 

“What else can I say?” she asked, as if, in her 
desperate need, seeking counsel of him. 

The boy shrugged his shoulders. 

“If madame desires, I can report madame is 
away,” he offered. 

It was all one to him. It was all one to every 
one else in the world but herself. No one was 
interested. She was alone. Then why had not 
Monte himself let her alone? That was the point, 
but to determine that it was necessary to see him. 

It was possible he had come merely by chance. 
It was possible he had come to see Peter, not know- 
ing that Peter had gone. It was possible he had 


28 o 


THE TRIFLERS 


returned this way in order to take the Mediter- 
ranean route home. On the face of it, anything 
was more probable than that he had come delib- 
erately to see her. 

‘‘You will ask monsieur to wait, and I will be 
down in a few moments,” she replied to the boy. 

She called to Marie. 

“I have a caller,” she announced nervously. 
“You must make me look as young as possible.” 

Even if she had grown old inside, there was no 
reason why she should reveal her secret. 

“I am glad,” nodded Marie. “Madame should 
put on a white gown and wear a ribbon in her 
hair.” 

“A ribbon !” exclaimed madame. “That would 
look absurd.” 

“You shall see.” 

She was too weak to protest. She was glad 
enough to sit down and give herself up utterly to 
Marie. 

“Only we must not keep him waiting too long,” 
she said. “Monsieur Covington does not like to 
be kept waiting.” 

“ It is he?” exclaimed Marie. 

“It — it is quite a surprise.” She blushed. “I 
— I do not understand why he is here.” 

“It should not be difficult to understand,” ven- 
tured Marie. 

To that madame made no reply. It was clear 
enough what Marie meant. It was a natural 
enough mistake. To her. Monsieur Covington 


FREEDOM 


281 

was still the husband of madame. She had stood 
in the little chapel in Paris when madame was 
married. When one was married, one was mar- 
ried; and that was all there was to it for all time. 
So, doubtless, Marie reasoned. It was the simple 
peasant way — the old, honest, woman way. 

Madame folded her hands in her lap and closed 
her eyes while Marie did her hair and adjusted the 
ribbon. Then Marie slipped a white gown over 
her head. 

‘‘There,” concluded the maid, with satisfaction, 
as she fastened the last hook. “Madame looks 
as young as when she was married.” 

But the color that made her look young van- 
ished the moment Marjory started down the 
stairs alone to meet him. Several times she paused 
to catch her breath; several times she was upon 
the point of turning back. Then she saw him com- 
ing up to meet her. She felt her hand in his. 

“Jove!” he was saying, “but it’s good to see 
you again.” 

“But I don’t understand why you are here,” 
she managed to gasp. 

To him it was evidently as simple as to Marie. 

“To see you,” he answered promptly. 

“If that is all, then you should not have come,” 
she declared. 

They were still on the stairs. She led the way 
down and into the lower reception-room. She did 
not care to go again into the sun parlor. She 
thought it would be easier to talk to him in sur- 


282 


THE TRIFLERS 


roundings not associated with anything in the 
past. They had the room to themselves. She sat 
down and motioned him to another chair at some 
little distance. He paid no attention to her im- 
plied request. With his feet planted firmly, his 
arms folded, he stood before her while she tried to 
find some way of avoiding his g ize. 

‘‘Peter Noyes has gone,” he began. 

“Yes,” she nodded. “You heard about his 
eyes?” 

“He wrote me.” 

She looked up swiftly. 

“Peter wrote you?” she trembled. 

“He told me he had recovered his sight. He 
told me he was going.” 

What else had he told? Dizzily she waited. 
For the first time in her life, she felt as if she 
might faint. That would be such a silly thing to 
do! 

“He said he was going home — out of your 
life.” 

Peter had told Monte that! What else had he 
told ? 

He paused a moment, as if expecting her to 
make some reply. There was nothing she could 
say. 

“It was n’t what I expected,” he went on. 

What else had Peter told him? 

“Was n’t there any other way?” he asked. 

“ I did n’t send him home. He — he chose to 
go,” she said. 


FREEDOM 283 

‘‘Because it was n’t any use for him to re- 
main? ” 

“I told him the truth,” she nodded. 

“And he took it like a man!” exclaimed Monte 
enthusiastically. “I’d like to show you his letter, 
only I don’t know that it would be quite fair to 
him.” 

“I don’t want to see it,” she cut in. “I — I 
know I should n’t.” 

What else besides his going had Peter told 
Monte ? 

“It was his letter that brought me back,” he 
said. 

She held her breath. She had warned Peter 
that if he as much as hinted at anything that she 
had confessed to him, she would lie to Monte. So 
she should — but God forbid that this added hu- 
miliation be brought upon her. 

“You see, when I went I expected that he 
would be left to care for you. With him and his 
sister here, I knew you would n’t be alone. I 
thought they’d stay, or if they went — you’d go 
with them.” 

“But why should n’t I be alone?” she gathered 
strength to ask. 

“Because,” he answered quickly, “it is n’t good 
for you. It is n’t good for any one. Besides, it 
is n’t right. When we were married I made cer- 
tain promises, and those hold good until we’re 
unmarried.” 

“Monte!” she cried. 


THE TRIFLERS 


284 

“ As long as Peter was around, that was one 
thing; now that he’s gone — ” 

“It throws me back on your hands,” she inter- 
rupted, in an attempt to assert herself. “Please 
to sit down. You’re making your old mistake of 
trying to be serious. There’s not the slightest 
reason in the world why you should bother about 
me like this.” 

She ventured to look at him again. His brows 
were drawn together in a puzzled frown. Dear 
Monte — it was cruel of her to confuse him like 
this, when he was trying to see straight. He 
looked so very woe-begone when he looked trou- 
bled at all. 

“ It — it is n’t any bother,” he stammered. 

“I should think it was a good deal,” she an- 
swered, feeling for a moment that she had the 
upper hand. “Where did you come from to 
here ? ” 

“Paris.” 

“You did n’t go on to England at all?” 

“No.” 

“Then you did n’t get back to your schedule. 
If you had done that, you would n’t have had any 
time left to — to think about other things.” 

“I did n’t get beyond the Normandie,” he an- 
swered. “My schedule stopped short right there.” 

He was still standing before her. Apparently 
he intended to remain. So she rose and crossed to 
another chair. He followed. 

“You should have gone on,” she insisted. 


FREEDOM 


285 

“I had my old room — next to yours,” he said. 

She must trouble him still more. There was no 
other way. 

“That was rather sentimental of you, Monte, 
was n’t it?” she asked lightly. 

“I went there as a man goes home,” he an- 
swered softly. 

Her lips became suddenly dumb. 

“Then I had a long letter from Peter; the first 
one.” 

“He has written you before?” 

“He wrote me that he loved you and was going 
to marry you. That was before he learned the 
truth.” 

“About you?” 

“And about you. When he wrote again, he said 
you had told him everything.” 

So she had; more, far more than she should. 
What of that had he told Monte? The question 
left her faint again. 

“How did it happen?” he asked. 

“I — I don’t know,” she faltered. “He guessed 
a little, and then I had to tell him the rest.” 

Monte’s mouth hardened. 

“That should n’t have been left for you to do. 
I should have told him myself.” 

“Now that it’s all over — can’t we forget it, 
Monte, with all the rest?” 

He bent a little toward her. 

“Have you forgotten all the rest?” he de- 
manded. 


286 


THE TRIFLERS 


“At least, I’m trying,” she gasped. 

“ I wonder if you have found it as hard as I even 
to try?” 

Steady — she must hold herself steady. His 
words were afire. With her eyes on the ground, 
she felt his eyes searching her face. 

“Whether it is hard or not makes no difference,” 
she answered. 

“ It’s just that which makes all the difference in 
the world,” he contradicted. “I wanted to be 
honest with myself and with you. So I went away, 
willing to forget if that were the honest way. But, 
from the moment I took the train here at Nice, 
I’ve done nothing but remember. I’ve remem- 
bered every single minute of the time since I met 
you in Paris. The present has been made up of 
nothing but the past. Passing hours were noth- 
ing but echoes of past hours. 

“I’ve remembered everything — even things 
away back that I thought I had forgotten. I dug 
up even those glimpses I had had of you at Chic’s 
house when you were only a school-girl. And I 
did n’t do it on purpose, Marjory. I ’d have been 
glad not to do it, because at the time it hurt to 
remember them. I thought I’d given you over 
to Peter. I thought he was going to take you 
away from me. So I ’d have been glad enough to 
forget, if it had been possible.” 

She sprang to her feet. 

“What are you saying, Monte?” she trembled. 

With his head erect and his eyes shining, he was 


FREEDOM 


287 

telling her what her heart hungered to hear. That 
was what he was doing. Only she must not listen. 

“I’m telling you that to forget was not possi- 
ble,” he repeated hotly; “I’m telling you that I 
shall never try again. I ’ve come back to get you 
and keep you this time.” 

He held out his arms to her. She shrank back. 

“You’re making it so hard,” she quavered. 

“Come to me,” he said gently. “That’s the 
easy way. I love you, Marjory. Don’t you un- 
derstand ? I love you with all my heart and soul, 
and I want you to begin life with me now in 
earnest. Come, little woman.” 

He reached her hands and tried to draw her 
toward him. She resisted with all her strength. 

“You must n’t,” she gasped. “You must n’t!” 

“It’s you who ’re making it hard now, wife o’ 
mine,” he whispered. 

Yes, she was making it hard. But she must 
make it still harder. He had come back to her 
because she was alone, moved temporarily by a 
feeling of sentimental responsibility. That was 
all. He was sincere enough for the moment, but 
she must not confuse this with any deeper passion. 
He had made a mistake in returning to the Nor- 
mandie. Doubtless he had felt lonesome there. 
It was only natural that he should exaggerate that, 
for the time being, into something more. 

Then Peter’s two letters had come. If Peter 
had not told him anything that he should n’t, he 
had probably told him a great deal more than he 


288 


THE TRIFLERS 


should. Monte, big-hearted and good, had, as a 
consequence of all these things, imagined himself 
in love. This delusion might last a week or two; 
and then, when he came to himself again, the rude 
awakening would follow. He would see her then 
merely as a trifler. Worse than that, he might see 
himself as merely a trifler. That would be deadly. 

‘Ht’s you who are making it hard now,” he 
repeated. 

She had succeeded in freeing herself, leaving him 
before her as amazed and hurt as a spurned child. 

‘‘You’re forcing me to run away from you — 
to run away as I did from the others,” she said. 

He staggered before the blow. 

“Not that!” he cried hoarsely. 

“I’m going home,” she ran on. “I’m going 
back to my little farm, where I started.” 

“You’re running away — from me?” 

“I must go right off.” 

She looked around as if for Marie. It was as 
if she were about to start that second. 

“Where is Marie?” she asked dully. 

She made for the door. 

“Marjory,” he called after her. “Don’t do 
that!” 

“I must go — right off,” she said again. 

“Wife o’ mine,” he cried, “there is no need of 
that.” 

“Marie!” she called as she reached the door. 
“Marie!” 

Frantically she ran up the stairs. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


WAR 


War! 

A summer sky, warm and fragrant, suddenly 
became dour and overcast. Within a day thunder 
rolled and lightning flashed. Men glanced up in 
startled surprise, then clenched their jaws. Wo- 
men who were laughing gayly turned suddenly 
white. Orders were speeded over the wires and 
through the clouds to the remotest hamlets of 
France. In a few hours men began to gather in 
uniform, bearing rifles. They posted themselves 
about the gates of stations. They increased in 
numbers until they were everywhere. Trumpets 
sounded, drums rolled. Excited groups gathered 
in the hotels and rushed off to the consulates. 
The very air was tense and vibrant. 

War! 

People massed in groups. The individual no 
longer counted. Storekeepers, bankers, dandies, 
chauffeurs, postmen, gardeners, hotel proprietors 
became merely Frenchmen. They dropped the 
clothes that distinguished their caste, and be- 
came merely men in uniform. 

Foreign visitors no longer counted as individu- 
als. They ran about in panic-stricken groups like 
vagrant dogs. Those in uniform looked on indif- 


THE TRIFLERS 


290 

ferently, or gave sharp orders turning strangers 
back from this road or that, this gate or that. 
A chauffeur in uniform might turn back his 
millionaire foreign master. 

Credit money no longer counted. Banks re- 
fused to give out gold, and the shopkeepers and 
hotel proprietors refused to acccept anything but 
gold. No one knew what might happen, and re- 
fused to risk. A man might brandish a letter of 
credit for ten thousand francs and be refused a 
glass of wine. A man with a thousand francs in 
gold was in a better position than a millionaire 
with only paper. 

Monte discovered this when he hurried to his 
own bankers. With half a million dollars and 
more to his credit at home, he was not allowed a 
single louis d’or. Somewhat bewildered, he stood 
on the steps and counted the gold he happened 
to have in his pockets. It amounted to some fifty 
dollars. To all intents and purposes, that em- 
braced his entire capital. In the present emer- 
gency his stocks and bonds were of no avail what- 
ever to him. He thought of the cables, but gold 
could not be cabled — only more credit, which in 
this grim crisis went for nothing. It was as if he 
had suddenly been forced into bankruptcy. His 
fortune temporarily had been swept away. 

If that was true of his own, it must be equally 
true of Marjory’s. She was no wealthier now than 
the sum total of the gold she happened to have in 
her possession. The thought came to him at first 


WAR 


291 

as a shock. What was she going to do? She was 
upon the point of leaving, and her plans must have 
been suddenly checked. She was, in effect, a pris- 
oner here. She was stranded as completely as if 
she were any penniless young woman. 

Then some emotion — some feeling indistinctly 
connected with the grandfather who had crossed 
the plains in forty-nine — swept over him. It was 
a primitive exultation. It made him conscious of 
the muscles in his back and legs. It made him 
throw back his head and square his shoulders. A 
moment before, with railroads and steamships at 
her command, with a hundred men standing ready 
to do her bidding in response to the magic of her 
check-book, she had been as much mistress of her 
little world as any ancient queen. 

Sweaty men were rushing fruits from the trop- 
ics, silks from India, diamonds from Africa, caviar 
from the north; others were making ready fine 
quarters in every corner of the globe; others were 
weaving cloths and making shoes ; others were re- 
hearsing plays and music — all for her and others 
like her, who had only to call upon their banks to 
pay for all this toil. Instead of one man to supply 
her needs, she had a thousand, ten thousand. With 
the machinery of civilization working smoothly, 
she had only to nod — and sign a check. 

Now, overnight, this had been changed. The 
machinery was to be put to other uses. Ships that 
had been carrying silks were needed for men with 
rifles. Railroads were for troops. The sweat of 


THE TRIFLERS 


292 

men was to be in battle. Servants were to be used 
for the slaughter of other servants. With nations 
at one another’s throats, the very basis of credit, 
mutual trust and esteem, was gone. She and 
others like her did not count. Men with the lust 
for blood in their hearts could not bother with 
them. They might sit in their rooms and sob, or 
they might starve. It did not much matter. A 
check was only a bit of paper. Under such condi- 
tions it might be good or not. Gold was what 
counted — gold and men. Broad backs counted, 
and stout legs. 

Monte took a deep breath. Now — it might be 
possible that he would count. It was so that his 
grandfather had counted. He had fought his way 
across a continent and back for just such another 
woman as Marjory. Life had been primitive then. 
It was primitive now. Men and women were 
forced to stand together and take the long road 
side by side. 

The blood rushed to Monte’s head. He must 
get to her at once. She would need him now — if 
only for a little while. He must carry her home. 
She could not go without him. 

He started down the steps of the bank, two at a 
time, and almost ran against her. She was on her 
way to the bank as he had been, in search of gold. 
Her eyes greeted him with the welcome her lips 
would not. 

“You see!” he exclaimed, with a quick laugh. 
“When you need me I come.” 


WAR 


293 

She was dressed in the very traveling costume 
she had worn when they left Paris together. She 
was wearing, too, the same hat. It might have 
been yesterday. 

“They refused my check at the hotel,’’ she ex- 
plained nervously. “They say they must have 
gold.” 

“Have you any?” he asked. 

“One louis d’or.” 

“And I have ten,” he informed her. 

She did not understand why he should be so 
exultant over this fact. 

“I have come here to get enough to pay my 
bill and buy my ticket. I am leaving this morn- 
ing.” 

“They won’t give you any,” he explained. “Be- 
sides, they won’t carry you on the train unless you 
put on a uniform.” 

“Monte!” 

“It’s a fact.” 

“Then — what am I to do?” 

She looked quite helpless — deliciously help- 
less. 

He laughed joyously. 

“You are bankrupt,” he said. “So am I. We 
have only fifty-five dollars between us. But that 
is something. Also there is the machine. That will 
take us over the Italian frontier and to Genoa. 
I ought to be able to sell it there for something. 
Come on.” 

“Where?” she asked. 


294 


THE TRIFLERS 


must get the car as soon as possible. I 
have a notion that with every passing hour it is 
going to be more difficult to get out.” 

‘‘But I’m not going with you, Monte. It’s — 
it’s impossible!” 

“It’s the only way, little woman.” 

He gave her no time to argue about it, but took 
her arm and hurried her to the garage. It was 
necessary to walk. Taxis were as if they had 
never been. They passed groups of soldiers who 
turned to look at Marjory. The eyes of many 
were hot with wine, and she was very glad that 
she was not alone. 

At the door of the garage stood a soldier in uni- 
form. As Monte attempted to pass, he was 
brought to a halt. 

“It is not permitted to pass,” explained the 
guard. 

“But I want to get my car.” 

“I’m afraid monsieur has no car.” 

“Eh?” 

“They have all been taken for la patrie.” 

“You mean my machine has been confiscated ? ” 

“Borrowed, perhaps. After the victory — ” 
The guard shrugged his shoulders. 

Monte shrugged his own shoulders. Then he 
laughed. 

“After all,” he said, “that is little enough to 
do for France. Inform the authorities they are 
welcome.” 

He saluted the guard, who returned the salute. 


WAR 


29s 

Again he took Marjory’s arm, and turned toward 
the hotel. 

“There is nothing to do but to walk,” he de- 
clared. 

“Where?” 

She could not understand his mood. It was as 
if this were a holiday instead of a very serious 
plight. 

“Over the border. It is only some twenty-five 
miles. We can do it easily in two days; but even 
if it takes three — ” 

Even if it took a hundred, what did it matter, 
with her by his side ? And by his side she must re- 
main until her credit was restored. With only one 
louis d’or in her pocket, she was merely a woman, 
with all the limitations of her sex. She could not 
take to the open road alone. She did not have the 
physical strength that dictated the law for vaga- 
bonds. She must have a man near to fight for her, 
or it would go hard. Even Marie would be no pro- 
tection in time of war. 

Dumbly she followed his pace until they reached 
the hotel. The place was in confusion and the 
proprietor at his wits’ end. In the midst of it, 
Monte was the only one apparently unmoved. 

“Pack one small hand-bag,” he ordered. “You 
must leave your trunks here.” 

“Yes, Monte,” she submitted. 

“ I ’ll run back to the Roses, and meet you here 
in a half-hour. Will you be ready?” 

“Yes. Marie will come with us, of course.” 


THE TRIFLERS 


296 

He shook his head. 

‘‘ She must wait here until she can get to Paris. 
Find out if she has any cash.” 

‘ want her to come with me,” she pleaded. 

“I doubt if she will want to come. Anyway, 
our fifty-five dollars won’t stretch to her. We — 
we can’t afford a maid.” 

She flushed at his use of ‘‘we.” Nevertheless, 
what he said was true enough. That sum was a 
mere pittance. Fate had her in a tight grip. 

“Be sure to bring your passport,” he reminded 
her. “It is ten-thirty. I’ll be here at eleven.” 

Hurrying back to his room, he took what he 
could crowd into his pockets : his safety razor and 
toothbrush, a few handkerchiefs and a change of 
socks. One did not need much on the open road. 
He carried his sweater — the old crimson sweater 
with the black “H” — more for her than for him- 
self. The rest of his things he threw into his trunk 
and left in the care of the hotel. 

She was waiting for him when he returned to 
the Hotel d’Angleterre. 

“You were right about Marie,” she acknowl- 
edged. “She has two brothers in the army. She 
has money enough for her fare to Paris, and is 
going as soon as possible.” 

“In the meanwhile she is safe enough here. So, 
en avant!” 

He took her bag, and they stepped out into the 
sunshine. 


I 


CHAPTER XXVIII 

THE CORNICE ROAD 

It was the Cornice Road that he followed — the 
broad white road that skirts the sea at the foot 
of the Alpes Maritimes. As far as Monte Carlo, 
he had walked it alone many the time. But he had 
never walked it with her, so it was a new road. It 
was a new world too, and as far as he was con- 
cerned there was no war. The blue sky overhead 
gave no hint of war; neither did the Mediterra- 
nean; neither did the trees full of singing birds; 
neither did the grasses and flowers: and these 
things, with the woman at his side, comprised, for 
the moment, his whole world. It was the world as 
originally created for man and woman. All that 
he was leaving behind — banks and hotels and 
taxis and servants and railroads — had nothing to 
do with the primal idea of creation. They were all 
extraneous. The heavens, the earth, the waters 
beneath the earth, man and woman created He 
them. That was all. That was enough. 

Once or twice, alone in his camp in the Adiron- 
dacks, Monte had sensed this fact. With a bit of 
food to eat, a bit of tobacco to smoke in his old 
brier, a bit of ground to lie down upon at night, he 
had marveled that men found so many other 
things necessary to their comfort. But, after a 


THE TRIFLERS 


298 

week or two of that, he had always grown restless, 
and hurried back to New York and his club and 
his men servants. In turn he grew restless there, 
and hurried on to the still finer luxuries of the 
German liners and the Continent. 

That was because he was lonesome — because 
she had not been with him. It was because — 
how clearly he saw it now! — he had never been 
complete by himself alone. He had been satisfying 
only half of himself. The other half he had tried to 
quiet with man-made things, with the artificial 
products of civilization. He had thought to allay 
that deep, undefined hunger in him with travel 
and sports and the attentions of hirelings. It had 
been easy at first; but, keen as nimble wits had 
been to keep pace with his desires with an ever- 
increasing variety of luxuries, he had exhausted 
them all within a decade and been left unsatisfied. 

To-day it was as if with each intake of breath 
the sweet air reached for the first time the most 
remote corners of his lungs. He had never before 
had air enough. The sunshine reached to the mar- 
row of his bones. Muscles that had lagged be- 
came vibrant. He could hardly keep his feet upon 
the ground. He would have liked to run; to keep 
on running mile after mile. He wondered when he 
would tire. He had a feeling that he could never 
tire. His back and arm muscles ached for action. 
He would have enjoyed a rough-and-tumble fight 
with some impudent fellow vagabond of the road. 


THE CORNICE ROAD 


299 

Marjory walked by his side in silence. That was 
all he asked — simply that she should be there on 
the left, dependent upon him. Here was the nub 
of the matter. Alv/ays before she had been able to 
leave him if she wished. She had married him upon 
that condition. There had never been a moment, 
until now, when he had not been conscious of the 
fact that he was in no way necessary to her. The 
protection against Teddy and the others was 
merely a convenience. He had been able to save 
her from annoyance, that was all. At any time on 
that ride from Paris she could have left him and 
gone on her way quite safely. At Nice, that was 
just what she had done. It was to save her from 
the annoyance of himself that he had finally gone 
away. Had he been really needed, that would have 
been impossible. But he knew that she could get 
along without him as she did. Then when Peter 
had gone it was more because he needed her than 
because she needed him that he had returned. 
Down deep in his heart he knew that, whatever 
he may have pretended. She was safe enough 
from everything except possible annoyance. With 
plenty of gold at her command, there was nothing 
that he could buy for her that she could not buy 
for herself. 

Now she had no gold — except one louis d’or. 
He was almost jealous of that single piece. He 
would have been glad if she lost it. If he had seen 
it drop from her bag, he would have let it lie where 
it fell. 


THE TRIFLERS 


300 

She was merely a woman now. The muscles in 
her arms and legs were not strong. Because of that 
she could not leave his side, nor order him to 
leave. She must look to him to fight for her if 
fighting were necessary. She must look to him to 
put his strong arm about her and help her if she 
grew weary. She must look to him to provide her 
with food and shelter for the night. Physically 
she was like a child out here on the open road. 
But he was a man. 

He was a man because he had something to 
protect. He was a man because he was responsible 
for some Qne besides himself. It was this that the 
other half pf him had been craving all these years. 
It was this that completed him. 

Yet his attitude toward her, in this respect, was 
strangely impersonal. He was looking for no re- 
ward. He did not consider that he was placing her 
in any way under an obligation to him. His joy 
in doing for her was not based upon aJny idea of 
furthering his own interests. He was utterly un- 
selfish. He did not look ahead an hour. It was 
enough to have her here in a position where he 
could be of some service. 

His love for her was another matter entirely. 
Whether she were with him or not, that would 
have remained the same. He loved her with all 
there was in him, and that was more or less dis- 
tinct from any attitude that she might assume. It 
was a separate, definite, concrete fact, no longer 
open to argument — no longer to be affected by 


THE CORNICE ROAD 


301 

any of the petty accidents of circumstance. Not 
even she had now any control over it. It was 
within her power to satisfy it or not; but that was 
all. She could not destroy it. If she left it unful- 
filled, then he must endure that, as Peter had. 
Peter was not sorry that he loved her, and Peter 
— why, Peter did not have the opportunity to 
sense more than the first faint beginnings of the 
word love. Peter had not had those weeks in 
Paris in which to get to know her; he had not had 
that wonderful ride through sunny France with 
Marjory by his side; and Peter had had nothing 
approaching such a day as this. 

Monte turned to look at her. They had passed 
through Villefranche, and were now taking the up 
grade. The exercise had flushed her cheeks, giv- 
ing her back the color she had lacked in the last few 
weeks. Her eyes were upon the ground, as if she 
did not dare raise them. Her face always seemed 
younger when one did not see the eyes. Asleep, 
she could not have looked over twenty. He 
marveled at how delicately feminine her forehead 
and nose were. And the lips — he could not look 
very long at her lips. Warm and full of curves, 
they tugged at his heart. They roused desire. Yet, 
had it been his blessed privilege to touch them 
with his own, he would have been very gentle 
about it. A man must needs always be gentle 
with her, he thought. 

That was why he must not utter the phrases 
that burned within. It would only frighten her. 


THE TRIFLERS 


302 

and he must see that she was never frightened 
again. To himself he might say as much as he 
pleased, because she could not hear. He could 
repeat to himself over and over again, as he did 
now, “I love you — I love you — I love you.’’ 

Out loud, however, he said only: — 

“Are you tired?” 

She started even at that. 

“No, Monte,” she answered. 

“We can rest any time you wish. We have all 
the time in the world ahead of us.” 

“Have we?” 

“Days and weeks and months,” he replied. 

It was the old Monte she heard — the easy, 
care-free Monte. It made her feel easier. 

“We should cross the border by to-morrow 
night, should n’t we?” she asked. 

“We could, if it were necessary,” he admitted. 

She quickened her pace unconsciously. 

“I think we should get there as soon as pos- 
sible.” 

“That,” he said, “would be like hurrying 
through Eden.” 

She ventured to glance up at him. With his lean, 
strong face to the sun, his lithe body swinging 
rhythmically to his stride, he looked like an In- 
dian chieftain. So he would have stalked through 
virgin forests. So, under different conditions, she 
might have been following his lead. But condi- 
tions were as they were. That is what she must 
keep in mind. He was here merely to escort her 


THE CORNICE ROAD 


303 

safely to Italy and to the steamer in which she 
was soon to sail for home. He was being decent 
to her, as under the same conditions he would be 
to any woman. He could scarcely do less than he 
was doing. She was forced upon him. 

That he apparently took pleasure in the episode 
was natural enough. It was just the sort of experi- 
ence he enjoyed. It was another pleasant excur- 
sion like the motor trip from Paris, with a touch 
of adventure added to give it spice. Possibly in his 
present mood there was also a trace of romance. 
Monte had his romantic side, based upon his quick 
sympathies. A maiden in distress was enough to 
rouse this. That was what happened yesterday 
when he told her of his love. He had been sincere 
enough for the moment, and no doubt believed 
everything he said. He had not given himself 
quite time enough to get back to his schedule. 
With that in good running order he would laugh 
at his present folly. 

For she must remember that Monte had not as 
yet touched either the heights or the depths of 
love. It was in him to do that, but she must see 
to it that he did not. That was her task. Love as 
he saw it now was merely a pleasant garden, in 
May. It was a gypsy jaunt along the open road 
where it was pleasant enough to have her with 
him as he whistled along. A day or a week or a 
month or two of that was well enough, as he had 
said. Only she — she could not last that long. 
To-day and to-morrow at the utmost was as 


THE TRIFLERS 


304 

much as she could endure, with every minute 
a struggle to whip back her emotions. Were it 
safe, she would try to keep it up for his sake. If 
without danger she could keep him happy this 
way, not allowing him to go any further, she 
would try. But there is a limit to what of herself 
a woman may sacrifice, even if she is willing. 

So, with her lips set, she stumbled along the 
Cornice Road by his side. 

At five that evening they had made half their 
journey and stopped at a wayside inn — the inn 
of L’Agneau dansant. On a squeaking sign before 
the ancient stone structure, which looked as if it 
must have been there in the days of post-chaises, a 
frolicsome lamb danced upon his hind legs, smil- 
ing to all who paused there an invitation to join 
him in this innocent pastime and not take the 
world too seriously. The good humor of the crude 
painting appealed to Monte. He grinned back 
at L’Agneau dansant. 

“Pm with you,” he nodded. 

Marjory, dusty and footsore, followed his gaze. 
Then she too smiled. 

“That fellow has the proper spirit,” he de- 
clared. “Shall we place ourselves in his care?” 

“Pm afraid I can’t go any farther,” she an- 
swered wearily. 

Monsieur Soucin came out, looking to be in any- 
thing but the mood of the gay lamb before his 
door. 


THE CORNICE ROAD 


30s 

^‘Two rooms, a little supper, and some break- 
fast,” explained Monte. ‘‘But we must strike a 
bargain. We are not American tourists — merely 
two travelers of the road without much gold and 
a long way to go.” 

“ I have but a single louis d’or,” put in madame. 

“Monsieur! Madame!” interrupted Soucin. “I 
am sorry, but I cannot accommodate you at any 
price. In the next village a regiment of soldiers 
have arrived. I have had word that I must receive 
here ten officers. They come at seven to-night.” 

“But look here — madame is very tired,” 
frowned Monte. 

“I am sorry,” answered Soucin helplessly. 

Monte stepped nearer and jingled the gold in 
his pocket. 

“Doubtless the next village in that case is with- 
out accommodations also,” said Monte. “We 
will strike no bargain. Name your price up to ten 
louis d’or; for madame must rest.” 

Soucin shook his head. 

“ I am giving up my own room. I must sleep 
in the kitchen — if I sleep at all; which, mon Dieu, 
is doubtful.” 

“Supposing we had arrived yesterday, would 
you have turned us out to-night?” 

“The inquiry was made how many rooms I 
had, and I answered truthfully.” 

Madame had sunk down on a bench by the 
door. Monte stared up the road and down the 
road. There was no other house in sight. 


THE TRIFLERS 


306 

“You could not find a bed for madame even 
for ten louis d’or?” 

“Not for a thousand, monsieur. If there are no 
beds, there are no beds.’’ 

Yet there was room enough thereabouts. Be- 
hind the inn an olive orchard extended up a gentle 
incline to a stone wall. Over this the sun was de- 
scending in a blaze of glory. A warm breeze 
stirred the dark leaves of the trees. A man could 
sleep out of doors on such a night as this. Monte 
turned again to the man. 

“The orchard behind the house is yours?” he 
asked. 

“Yes, monsieur.” 

“Then,” said Monte, “if you will spare us a few 
blankets, madame and I will sleep there.” 

“Upon the ground?” 

“Upon the blankets,” smiled Monte. 

“Ah, monsieur is from America!” exclaimed 
Soucin, as if that explained everything. 

“Truly.” 

“And it is so the Indians sleep, I have read.” 

“You have read well. But we must have supper 
before the officers arrive. You can spare some 
bread and cheese?” 

“I will do that.” 

“Then make it ready at once. And some coffee ? ” 

“Yes, monsieur.” 

Monte returned to madame. 

“I have engaged two rooms in the olive or- 
chard,” he announced. 


CHAPTER XXIX 

BENEATH THE STARS 

The situation was absurd, but what could be 
done about it? France was at war, and there 
would be many who would sleep upon the ground 
who had never slept there before. Many, too, in 
the ground. Still, the situation was absurd — that 
Marjory, with all her thousands of dollars, should 
be forced to sleep out of doors. It gave her a start- 
ling sense of helplessness. She had been before in 
crowded places, but the securing of accommoda- 
tions was merely a matter of increasing the size 
of her check. But here, even if one had a thousand 
louis d’or, that would have made no difference. 
Officers of the Army of France were not to be dis- 
turbed by the tinkle of gold. With a single gold- 
piece, moreover, one could not even make a tinkle. 

She went into the inn to tidy herself before 
supper; but she hurried back to Monte as quickly 
as possible. Out of sight of him she felt as lost 
as a child in a forest. She had nothing to lean 
upon now but him. Without him here she would 
scarcely have had even identity. Her name, except 
as signed to a check, meant nothing. To have an- 
nounced herself as Miss Marjory Stockton, or even 
as Madame Covington, would have left the sol- 
diers of France merely smiling. To her sex they 


THE TRIFLERS 


308 

might have paid some deference, but to her sex 
alone. She was not anything except as she was 
attached to Monte — as a woman under the pro- 
tection of her man. 

This did not humble her. Her first clean, un- 
guarded emotion was one of pride. Had it been 
her privilege to let herself go, she would have taken 
her place near him with her eyes afire — with her 
head held as proudly as any queen. Gladly would 
she have rested by his side in an olive orchard or a 
fisherman’s hut or a forest or on the plains or any- 
where fortune might take him. By his side — that 
would have been enough. If she were his woman 
and he her man, that would have been enough. 

If she could only let herself go! As she came 
into the smoky old tavern room and he stepped 
forward to meet her, she swayed a little. He looked 
so big and wholesome and eager with his arms out- 
stretched 1 They were alone here. It would have 
been so easy just to close her eyes and let her head 
rest against his shoulder — so easy and restful. 
He would have kissed her hair, and the ache would 
all have gone from her body and heart. He would 
draw her close and hold her tight — yes, for a day 
or two or a month or two. Then he would remem- 
ber that week in which she had trifled with him, 
and he would hate her. 

She pulled herself together. 

“Is supper ready?” 

It was such an inane remark! He turned aside 
like a boy who has been snubbed. 


BENEATH THE STARS 309 

Monsieur Soucin had provided bread and 
cheese, a salad, and coffee. It was enough. She 
had no appetite. She took much more satisfac- 
tion in watching Monte and in pouring his coffee. 
His honest hunger was not disturbed by any vain 
speculations. He ate like a man, as he did every- 
thing like a man. It restored her confidence again. 

‘‘ Soucin lent a mattress, which I have arranged 
just the other side of the wall. That is your room. 
With plenty of blankets you should be comfort- 
able enough there,” he said. 

‘‘And you?” she inquired. 

“I am on this side of the wall,” he replied 
gravely. 

“What are you going to sleep upon?” 

“A blanket.” 

If it had been possible to do so, she would have 
given him the mattress and slept upon the ground 
herself. That is what she would have liked to do. 

“It’s no more than I have done in the woods 
when I could n’t make camp in time,” he explained. 
“I had hoped to take you some day to my cabin 
near the lake.” 

She could think of nothing better than another 
inane remark: — 

“ It must be beautiful there.” 

He looked up. 

“It always has been, but now — without 
you — ” 

“You must n’t let me make any difference,” 
she put in quickly. 


THE TRIFLERS 


310 

“Why not?” 

“Because you must n’t. You must go on just 
as if you had never met me.” 

“Why?” He was as direct as a boy. 

“Because that’s best. Oh, I know, Monte. 
You must trust me to know what is good for 
you,” she cried. 

“I don’t believe you know even what is good 
for yourself,” he answered. 

“I — I know what is right,” she faltered. 

He saw that he was disturbing her, and he did 
not want to do that. 

“Perhaps in time we’ll see,” he said. “I have 
a notion that some day you and I will get straight- 
ened out.” 

“ It does n’t make so much difference about me; 
but you — you must get back to your schedule 
again as soon as ever you can.” 

“Perhaps to a new one; but that must include 
you.” 

She could not help the color in her cheeks. It 
was beyond her control. 

“I must make my own little schedule,” she 
insisted. 

“You are going back to the farm?” 

She nodded. 

“To-morrow we shall be in Italy. Then a train 
to Genoa and the next boat,” she said. 

“After that?” 

“In a week or so I shall be back where I 
started.” 


BENEATH THE STARS 311 

‘‘Then?’^ 

She laughed nervously. 

‘‘I can’t think much ahead of that. Perhaps I 
shall raise chickens.” 

“Year after year?” 

“Maybe.” 

“If you lived to be seventy you’d have a lot of 
chickens by then, would n’t you?” 

“I — I don’t know.” 

It did sound ridiculous, the way he put it. 

“Then — would you will them to some one?” 
he asked. 

He was laughing at her. She was glad to have 
him do that rather than remain serious. 

“Please don’t make me look ahead to seventy,” 
she shuddered. 

Monsieur Soucin was hovering about nervously. 
He wished to have everything cleared away be- 
fore the officers arrived, and they would be here 
now in half an hour. He was solicitous about 
madame. 

“It is a great pity that madame should sleep 
out of doors,” he said. “It makes my heart ache. 
But, with monsieur to guard her, at least madame 
will be safe.” 

Yes, safe from everyone but herself. However, 
Monsieur Soucin could not be expected to read 
a lady’s innermost thoughts. Indeed, it would 
scarcely have been gallant so to do. 

“And now you wish to be rid of us,” said 
Monte as he rose. 


312 


THE TRIFLERS 


“Monsieur should not be unkind,” sighed 
Soucin. “It is a necessity and not a wish.” 

“You have done as well as you could,” Monte 
reassured him. “We shall probably rise early 
and be on our way before the soldiers, so — ” 

Monte slipped into his hand a gold-piece. It was 
too much from one point of view, and yet from 
another it was little enough. Soucin had unwit- 
tingly made an arrangement for which Monte 
could not pay in money. 

“And my share?” inquired Marjory. 

“One louis d’or,” answered Monte unblush- 
ingly. 

She fumbled in her bag and brought it out — 
the last she had. And Monte, in his reckless joy, 
handed that over also to Soucin. The man was too 
bewildered to do more than bow as he might be- 
fore a prince and princess. 

Monte led her up the incline through the heavy- 
leaved olive trees to her couch against the wall. 
It had been made up as neatly as in any hotel, 
with plenty of blankets and a pillow for her 
head. 

“If you wish to retire at once,” he said, “I’ll 
go back to my side of the wall.” 

She hesitated. The wall was man-high and so 
thick that once he was behind it she would feel 
terribly alone. 

“Or better still,” he suggested, “you lie down 
and let me sit and smoke here. I’ll be quiet.” 

It was^a temptation she would have resisted 


BENEATH THE STARS 313 

had she not been so tired physically. As it was, 
half numbed with fatigue, she removed her hat 
and lay down between the blankets. 

Monte slipped on his sweater with the black 
and took a place against the wall at Mar- 
jory’s feet. 

“All comfy?” he asked. 

“It’s impossible to feel altogether comfortable 
when you’re selfish,” Marjory declared. 

He took a thoughtful puff of his cigarette. 

“I think you’re right about that,” he an- 
swered. “Only in this case there’s no reason in 
the world for you to feel like that, because I’m 
comfortable too.” 

“Honestly?” 

“Cross my heart. I’d rather be here than in 
the finest bed in Paris.” 

“You’re so good,” she murmured. 

With all her muscles relaxed, and with him there, 
she felt as if she were floating in the clouds. 

“It’s strange you’ve always had that notion, 
because I ’m not especially good,” he replied. “Do 
you want to go to sleep, or may I talk a while 
longer?” 

“Please to talk.” 

“Of course,” he ran on meditatively, ‘^some- 
thing depends upon what you mean by being 
good. I used to think it was merely being decent. 
I’ve been that. It happened to be easy. But 
being good, as I see it now, is being good when it 
isn’t easy — and then something more.” 


THE TRIFLERS 


314 

She was listening with bated breath, because he 
was voicing her own thoughts. 

“It’s being good to others besides yourself,” 
he continued. “Forgetting yourself for them — 
when that is n’t easy.” 

“Yes, it’s that,” she said. 

“I don’t want to boast,” he said; “but, in a 
way, I come nearer being good at this moment, 
than ever before in my life.” 

“You mean because it’s tiresome for you to 
sit there?” 

“Because it’s hard for me to sit here when I’d 
like to be kneeling by your side, kissing your hand, 
your forehead, your lips,” he answered passion- 
ately. 

She started to her elbow. 

“I shan’t move,” he assured her. “But it is n’t 
easy to sit here like a bump on a log with every- 
thing you’re starving for within arm’s reach.” 

“Monte!” she gasped. “Perhaps you’d better 
not talk.” 

“If it were only as easy to stop thinking!” 

“Why don’t one’s thoughts mind?” she cried. 
“When they are told what’s right, why don’t 
they come right?” 

“God knows,” he answered. “I sit here and tell 
myself that if you don’t love me I should let it 
go at that, and think the way I did before the 
solemn little pastor in Paris got so serious over 
what was n’t meant to be serious. I’ve tried, 
little woman. I tried hard when I left you with 


BENEATH THE STARS 315 

Peter. I could n’t do it then, and I can’t do it 
now. I hear over and over again the words the 
little minister spoke, and they grow more wonder- 
ful and fine every day. I think he must have 
known then that I loved you or he would not have 
uttered them.” 

The leaves in the olive trees rustled beneath the 
stars. 

“Dear wife,” he cried, “when are you coming 
to me?” 

He did not move. She saw his broad shoulders 
against the wall. She saw his arms folded over 
his chest as if to keep them tight. She saw his 
clenched lips. 

“God help me to keep silent,” she prayed. 

“When are you coming?” he repeated wearily. 
“Will it be one year or two years or three years?” 

She moistened her lips. He seemed to speak as 
though it were only a matter of time — as though 
it were he who was being punished and it was 
only a question of how long. She sank back with 
her eyes upon the stars darting shafts of white 
light through the purple. 

“And what am I going to do while I’m wait- 
ing?” he went on, as though to himself. 

Grimly she forced out the words : — 

“You — you must n’t wait. There ’s nothing 
to wait for.” 

She saw his arms tighten; saw his lips grow 
hard. 

“Nothing?” he exclaimed. “Don’t make me 


3i6 the TRIFLERS 

believe that, because — then there would n^t be 
anything.” 

She grew suddenly afraid. 

‘‘There would be everything else in the world 
for you — everything except me,” she trembled. 
“And I count for so little. That’s what I want 
you to learn. That’s what, in a little while, you 
will learn. That’s what you must learn. If you ’ll 
only hold on until to-morrow — until the next day 
and I ’m gone — ” 

“Gone?” 

He sprang to his feet. 

“Monte!” she warned. 

In terror she struggled to her own feet. The 
white light of the stars bathed their faces. In the 
distance he heard the notes of a trumpet sounding 
taps. It roused him further. It was as though the 
night were closing in upon him — as though life 
were closing in on him. 

He turned and seized her. 

“Marjory!” he cried. “Look me in the eyes.” 

She obeyed. 

“They are sounding taps over there,” he 
panted. “Before they are through — do you love 
me, Marjory?” 

Never before in all his life had he asked her 
that directly. Always she had been able to avoid 
the direct answer. Now — 

She tried to struggle free. 

“Don’t — don’t ask me that!” she pleaded. 

“Before they are through — do you love me?” 


BENEATH THE STARS 317 

Piercing the still night air the final notes came 
to her. There was no escape. Either she must lie 
or tell the truth and to lie — that meant death. 

‘‘Quick!” he cried. 

“I do!” she whispered. 

“Then—” 

He tried to draw her to him. 

“You made me tell you, Monte,” she sobbed. 
“Oh, you made me tell the truth.” 

“The truth,” he nodded with a smile; “that 
was all that was necessary. It’s all that is ever 
necessary.” 

He had released her. She was crowding against 
the wall. She looked up at him. 

“Now,” he said, “?.f rt’s one year or two years 
or three years — what’s the difference?” 

Her eyes suddenly grew as brilliant as the stars. 
She straightened herself. 

“Then,” she trembled, “if it’s like that — ” 

“It might as well be now,” he pleaded. 

Unsteadily, like one walking in a dream, she 
tottered toward him. He caught her in his arms 
and kissed her lips — there in the starlight, 
there in the olive orchard, there in the Garden of 
Eden. 


THE END 


> 


4 


*1 





I 


* 




0 



I 


THE NOVELS OF 

MARY ROBERTS RINEHART 


May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list. 


Illustrated. 

K. LeMoyne, famous surgeon, drops out of the world that 
has known him, and goes to live in a little town where 
beautiful Sidney Page lives. She is in training to become a 
nmse. The joys and troubles of their young love are told 
with that keen and sympathetic appreciation which has 
made the author famous. 

THE MAN IN LOWER TEN. 

Illustrated by Howard Chandler Christy. 

An absorbing detective story woven around the mysteri- 
ous death of the “Man in Lower Ten.” The strongest 
elements of Mrs. Rinehart’s success are found in this book. 

WHEN A MAN MARRIES. 

Illustrated by Harrison Fisher and Mayo Bunker. 

A young artist, whose wife had recently divorced him, 
finds that his aunt is soon to visit him. The aunt, who 
contributes to the family income and who has never seen 
the wife, knows nothing of the domestic upheaval. How 
the young man met the situation is humorously and most 
entertainingly told. 

THE CIRCULAR STAIRCASE. Ulus, by Lester Ralph. 

The summer occupants of “Sunnyside” find the dead 
body of Arnold Armstrong, the son of the owner, on the cir- 
cular staircase. Following the murder a bank failure is an- 
nounced. Around these two events is woven a plot o^ 
absorbing interest. 

THE STREET OF SEVEN STARS. 

Illustrated (Photo Play Edition.) 

Harmony Wells, studying in Vienna to be a great vio- 
linist, suddenly realizes that her money is almost gone. She 
meets a young ambitious doctor who offers her chivalry and 
S5mipathy, and together with world-worn Dr. Anna and 
Jimmie, the waif, they share their love and slender means. 


Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York 


BOOTH TARKINGTON’S 
NOVELS 


May be had wherever books are sold. Ask.for Grosset & Dunlap*s list 


SEVENTEEN. Illustrated by Arthur WilUam Brown. 

No one but the creator of Penrod could have portrayed' 
the immortal young people of this story. Its humor is irre- 
sistible and reminiscent of the time when the reader was 
Seventeen. 

PENROD. Illustrated by Gordon Grant. 

This is a picture of a boy's heart, full of the lovable, hu- 
morous, tragic things which are locked secrets to most older 
folks. It is a finished, exquisite work. 

PENROD AND SAM. Illustrated by Worth Brehm. 

Like “ Penrod " and “ Seventeen," this book contains 
some remarkable phases of real boyhood and some of the best 
stories of juvenile prankishness that have ever been written. 

THE TURMOIL. Illustrated by G. E. Chambers. 

Bibbs Sheridan is a dreamy, imaginative youth, who re- 
volts against his father's plans for him to be a servitor of 
big business. The love of a fine girl turns Bibb's life from 
failure to success. 

THE GENTLEMAN FROM INDIANA. Frontispiece. 

A story of love and politics, — more especially a picture of 
a country editor's life in Indiana, but the charm of the book 
lies in the love interest. 

THE FLIRT Illustrated by Clarence F. Underwood. 

^ The “ FHrt,'* the younger of two sisters, breaks one girPg 
engagement, drives one man to suicide, causes the murdex 
of another, leads another to lose his fortune, and in the end 
marries a stupid and unpromising suitor, leaving the really 
worthy one to marry her sister. 


Aak for CympUte free Usi of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted FicUon 

Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York 


KATHLEEN NORRIS’ STORIES 

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list. 

MOTHER, niustrated by F. G. Yohn. 

This book has a fairy-story touch, counterbalanced by 
the sturdy reality of struggle, sacrifice, and resulting peacG 
and power of a mother^s experiences. 

SATURDAYS CHILD. 

Frontispiece by F. Graham Goo tes. 

Out on the Pacific coast a normal girl, obscure and lovely^ 
makes a quest for happiness. She passes through three 
stages — poverty, wealth and service — and works out a 
creditable salvation. 

THE RICH MRS. BURGOYNE. 

Illustrated by Lucius H. Hitchcock. 

The story of a sensible woman who5^eeps within hei 
means, refuses to be swamped by social engagements, lives 
a normal human life of varied interests, and has her own 
romance. 

THE STORY OF JULIA PAGE. 

Frontispiece by Allan Gilbert. 

How Julia Page, reared in rather unpromising surround-* 
ings, lifted herself through sheer determination to a higher 
plane of life. 

THE HEART OF RACHAEL. 

Frontispiece by Charles E. Chambers. 

Rachael is called upon to solve many problems, and in 
working out these, there is shown the beauty and strength 
of soul of one of fiction^s most appealing characters. 

^sk for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction 

Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York 



ZANE GREY’S NOVELS 


May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list 


THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

A New York society srirl buys a ranch which becomes the center of frontier war- 
fare. _ Her loyal superintendent rescues her when she is captured by bandits. A 
surprising climax brings the story to a delightful close. 

THE RAINBOW TRAIL 

The story of a young clergyman who becomes a wanderer in the great westerr 
uplands— until at last love and faith awake. 

DESERT GOLD 

The story describes the recent uprising along the border, and ends with the finding 
of the gold which two prospectors had willed to the girl who is the story’s heroine. 

RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

A picturesque ronjance of Utah of some forty years ago when Mormon authority 
ruled. The prosecution of Jane Withersteen is the theme^of the story. 

THE LAST OF THE PLAINSMEN 

This is the record of a trip which the author took with Buffalo Jones, known as the 
preserver of the American bison, across the Arizona desert and of a hunt in “that 
wonderful country of deep canons and giant pines.” 

THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT 

A lovely girl, who has been reared among Mormons, learns to love a young New 
Englander. The Mormon religion, however, demands that the girl shall become 
the second wife of one of the Mormons — Well, that’s the problem of this great story, 

THE SHORT STOP 

The young hero, tiring of his factory grind, starts out to win fame and fortune as 
a professional ball player. His hard knocks at the start are followed by such success 
as clean sportsmanship, courage and honesty ought to win. 

BETTY ZANE 

This story tells of the bravery and heroism of Betty, the beautiful young sister of 
old Colonel Zane, one of the bravest pioneers. 

THE LONE STAR RANGER 

After killing a man in self defense. Buck Duane becomes an outlaw along the 
Texas border. In a camp on the Mexican side of the river, he finds a young girl held 
prisoner, and in attempting to rescue her, brings down upon himself the wrath of her 
captors and henceforth is hunted on one side by honest men, on the other by outlaws, 

THE BORDER LEGION 

Joan Randle, in a spirit of anger, sent Jim Cleve out to a lawless Western mining 
camp, to prove his mettle. Then realizing that she loved him — she followed him out. 
On her way, she is captured by a bandit band, and trouble begins when she shoots 
^ Kells, the leader —and nurses him to health again. Here enters another romance— 
when Joan, disguised as an outlaw, observes Jim, in the throes of dissipation. A gold 
strike, a thrilling robbery— gambling and gun play carry you along breathlessly. 


THE LAST OF THE GREAT SCOUTS, 

By Helen Cody Wetmore and Zane Grey 

The life story of Colonel William F. Cody, “ Buffalo Bill,” as told by his sister and 
Zane Grey. It begins with his boyhood in Iowa and his first encounter with an In- 
dian. We see “ Bill” as a pony express rider, then near Fort Sumter as Chief of 
the Scouts, and later engaged in the most dangerous Indian campaigns. There is 
also a very interesting account of the travels of “The Wild West” Show No char- 
acter In public life makes a stronger appeal to the imagination of America than 
“ Buffalo Bill,” whose daring and bravery made him famous. 


Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York 


THE NOVELS OF 

CLARA LOUISE BURNHAM 


May bt had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grossst & Dunlap’s list 

JEWEL: A Chapter in Her Life. 

Illustrated by Maude and Genevieve Cowles. 

A story breathing the doctrine of love and patience as exempt 
Med in the life of a child. Jewel will never grow old because 
of the immortality of her love. 

JEWEL’S STORY BOOK. Illustrated by Albert Schmitt. 

A sequel to “Jewel,” in which the same characteristies of 
love and cheerfulness touch and uplift the reader. 

THE INNER FLAME. F rontispiece in color. 

A young mining engineer, whose chief ambition is to become 
an artist, but who has no friends with whom to realize his hopes, 
has a way opened to him to try his powers, and, of course, he 
is successful. 

THE RIGHT PRINCESS. 

At a fashionable Long Island resort, a stately English wjman 
employs a forcible New England housekeeper to serve in her 
mteresting home. Many humorous situations result. A de- 
lightful love affair runs through it all. 

THE OPENED SHUTTERS. 

Illustrated with Scenes from the Photo Play. 

A beautiful woman, at discord with life, is brought to realize, 
oy her new friends, that she may open the shutters of her soul 
to the blessed sunlight of joy by casting aside self love. 

THE RIGHT TRACK. 

Frontispiece in color by Greene Blumenschien. 

A story of a young girl who marries for money so that she can 
«njoy things intellectual. Neglect of her husband and of he? 
two step children makes an unhappy home till a friend brings Sk 
;ii?w philosophy of happiness into the household. 

CLEVER BETSY. Illustrated by Rose O’ Neill. 

The “Clever Betsy ’ ’ was a boat— named for the unyielding 
spinster whom the captain hoped to marry. Through the two 
Betsy’s a delightful group of people are introduced. 


for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction 


Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New Yorsc 


. JOHN FOX, JR’S. 

STORIES OF THE KENTUCKY MOUNTAINS 

May lie had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Danlap’s list. 


THE TRAIL OF THE LONESOME PINE . 

Illustrated by F. C. Yohn. 

The “lonesome pine” from which the 
story takes its name was a tall tree that 
stood in solitary splendor on a mountaia 
top. The fame of the pine lured a young 
engineer through Kentucky to catch the 
trail, and when he finally climbed to its 
shelter he found not only the pine but the 
foot-prints of a girl. And the girl proved 
to be lovely, piquant, and the trail of 
these girlish foot-prints led the young 
engineer a madder chase than “the trail 
of the lonesome pine.” 

THE LITTLE SHEPHERD OF KINGDOM COME 
Illustrated by F. C. Yohn. 

This is a story of Kentucky, in a settlement known as “King- 
dom Come.” It is a life rude, semi-barbarous; but natural 
and honest, from which often springs the flower of civilization. 

“ Chad.” the “little shepherd” did not know who he was nor 
whence he came — ^he had just wandered from door to door since 
early childhood, seeking shelter with kindly mountaineers who 
gladly fathered and mothered this waif about whom there was , 
such a mystery — a charming waif,^ by the way, who could play 
the banjo better that anyone else in the mountains. 

A KNIGHT OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

Illustrated byF. C. Yohn. 

The scenes are laid along the waters of the Cumberland* 
the lair of moonshiner and feudsman. The knight is a moon- 
shiner’s son, and the heroine a beautiful girl perversely chris- 
tened “The Blight.” Two impetuous young Southerners’ fall 
under the spell of “The Blight’s ” charms and she learns what 
a large part jealousy and pistols have in the love making of the 
mountaineers. 

Included in this volume is “Hell fer-Sartain” and other 
stories, some of Mr. Fox’s most entertaining Cumberland valley 
narratives. 


As\ for complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction 


Grosset & Dunlap, 526 West 26th St., New York. 




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